the silent, fighting poor--one is bound to feel a genuine respect.  One
honours them, as one honours a wounded soldier.

In the perpetual warfare between Humanity and Nature, the poor stand
always in the van.  They die in the ditches, and we march over their
bodies with the flags flying and the drums playing.

One cannot think of them without an uncomfortable feeling that one ought
to be a little bit ashamed of living in security and ease, leaving them
to take all the hard blows.  It is as if one were always skulking in the
tents, while one's comrades were fighting and dying in the front.

They bleed and fall in silence there.  Nature with her terrible club,
"Survival of the Fittest"; and Civilisation with her cruel sword, "Supply
and Demand," beat them back, and they give way inch by inch, fighting to
the end.  But it is in a dumb, sullen way, that is not sufficiently
picturesque to be heroic.

I remember seeing an old bull-dog, one Saturday night, lying on the
doorstep of a small shop in the New Cut.  He lay there very quiet, and
seemed a bit sleepy; and, as he looked savage, nobody disturbed him.
People stepped in and out over him, and occasionally in doing so, one
would accidentally kick him, and then he would breathe a little harder
and quicker.

At last a passer-by, feeling something wet beneath his feet, looked down,
and found that he was standing in a pool of blood, and, looking to see
where it came from, found that it flowed in a thick, dark stream from the
step on which the dog was lying.

Then he stooped down and examined the dog, and the dog opened its eyes
sleepily and looked at him, gave a grin which may have implied pleasure,
or may have implied irritation at being disturbed, and died.

A crowd collected, and they turned the dead body of the dog over on its
side, and saw a fearful gash in the groin, out of which oozed blood, and
other things.  The proprietor of the shop said the animal had been there
for over an hour.

I have known the poor to die in that same grim, silent way--not the poor
that you, my delicately-gloved Lady Bountiful and my very excellent Sir
Simon DoGood, know, or that you would care to know; not the poor who
march in processions with banners and collection-boxes; not the poor that
clamour round your soup kitchens and sing hymns at your tea meetings; but
the poor that you don't know are poor until the tale is told at the
coroner's inquest--the silent, proud poor who wake each morning to
wrestle with Death till night-time, and who, when at last he overcomes
them, and, forcing them down on the rotting floor of the dim attic,
strangles them, still die with their teeth tight shut.

There was a boy I came to know when I was living in the East End of
London.  He was not a nice boy by any means.  He was not quite so clean
as are the good boys in the religious magazines, and I have known a
sailor to stop him in the street and reprove him for using indelicate
language.

He and his mother and the baby, a sickly infant of about five months old,
lived in a cellar down a turning off Three Colt Street.  I am not quite
sure what had become of the father.  I rather think he had been
"converted," and had gone off round the country on a preaching tour.  The
lad earned six shillings a week as an errand-boy; and the mother stitched
trousers, and on days when she was feeling strong and energetic would
often make as much as tenpence, or even a shilling.  Unfortunately, there
were days when the four bare walls would chase each other round and
round, and the candle seem a faint speck of light, a very long way off;
and the frequency of these caused the family income for the week to
occasionally fall somewhat low.

One night the walls danced round quicker and quicker till they danced
away altogether, and the candle shot up through the ceiling and became a
star and the woman knew that it was time to put away her sewing.

"Jim," she said: she spoke very low, and the boy had to bend over her to
hear, "if you poke about in the middle of the mattress you'll find a
couple of pounds.  I saved them up a long while ago.  That will pay for
burying me.  And, Jim, you'll take care of the kid.  You won't let it go
to the parish."

Jim promised.

"Say 'S'welp me Gawd,' Jim."

"S'welp me Gawd, mother."

Then the woman, having arranged her worldly affairs, lay back ready, and
Death struck.

Jim kept his oath.  He found the money, and buried his mother; and then,
putting his household goods on a barrow, moved into cheaper
apartments--half an old shed, for which he paid two shillings a week.

For eighteen months he and the baby lived there.  He left the child at a
nursery every morning, fetching it away each evening on his return from
work, and for that he paid fourpence a day, which included a limited
supply of milk.  How he managed to keep himself and more than half keep
the child on the remaining two shillings I cannot say.  I only know that
he did it, and that not a soul ever helped him or knew that there was
help wanted.  He nursed the child, often pacing the room with it for
hours, washed it, occasionally, and took it out for an airing every
Sunday.

Notwithstanding all which care, the little beggar, at the end of the time
above mentioned, "pegged out," to use Jimmy's own words.

The coroner was very severe on Jim.  "If you had taken proper steps," he
said, "this child's life might have been preserved."  (He seemed to think
it would have been better if the child's life had been preserved.
Coroners have quaint ideas!)  "Why didn't you apply to the relieving
officer?"

"'Cos I didn't want no relief," replied Jim sullenly.  "I promised my
mother it should never go on the parish, and it didn't."

The incident occurred, very luckily, during the dead season, and the
evening papers took the case up, and made rather a good thing out of it.
Jim became quite a hero, I remember.  Kind-hearted people wrote, urging
that somebody--the ground landlord, or the Government, or some one of
that sort--ought to do something for him.  And everybody abused the local
vestry.  I really think some benefit to Jim might have come out of it all
if only the excitement had lasted a little longer.  Unfortunately,
however, just at its height a spicy divorce case cropped up, and Jim was
crowded out and forgotten.

I told the boys this story of mine, after Jephson had done telling his,
and, when I had finished, we found it was nearly one o'clock.  So, of
course, it was too late to do any more work to the novel that evening.




CHAPTER IV


We held our next business meeting on my houseboat.  Brown was opposed at
first to my going down to this houseboat at all.  He thought that none of
us should leave town while the novel was still on hand.

MacShaughnassy, on the contrary, was of opinion that we should work
better on a houseboat.  Speaking for himself, he said he never felt more
like writing a really great work than when lying in a hammock among
whispering leaves, with the deep blue sky above him, and a tumbler of
iced claret cup within easy reach of his hand.  Failing a hammock, he
found a deck chair a great incentive to mental labour.  In the interests
of the novel, he strongly recommended me to take down with me at least
one comfortable deck chair, and plenty of lemons.

I could not myself see any reason why we should not be able to think as
well on a houseboat as anywhere else, and accordingly it was settled that
I should go down and establish myself upon the thing, and that the others
should visit me there from time to time, when we would sit round and
toil.

This houseboat was Ethelbertha's idea.  We had spent a day, the summer
before, on one belonging to a friend of mine, and she had been enraptured
with the life.  Everything was on such a delightfully tiny scale.  You
lived in a tiny little room; you slept on a tiny little bed, in a tiny,
tiny little bedroom; and you cooked your little dinner by a tiny little
fire, in the tiniest little kitchen that ever you did see.  "Oh, it must
be lovely, living on a houseboat," said Ethelbertha, with a gasp of
ecstasy; "it must be like living in a doll's house."

Ethelbertha was very young--ridiculously young, as I think I have
mentioned before--in those days of which I am writing, and the love of
dolls, and of the gorgeous dresses that dolls wear, and of the
many-windowed but inconveniently arranged houses that dolls inhabit--or
are supposed to inhabit, for as a rule they seem to prefer sitting on the
roof with their legs dangling down over the front door, which has always
appeared to me to be unladylike: but then, of course, I am no authority
on doll etiquette--had not yet, I think, quite departed from her.  Nay,
am I not sure that it had not?  Do I not remember, years later, peeping
into a certain room, the walls of which are covered with works of art of
a character calculated to send any aesthetic person mad, and seeing her,
sitting on the floor, before a red brick mansion, containing two rooms
and a kitchen; and are not her hands trembling with delight as she
arranges the three real tin plates upon the dresser?  And does she not
knock at the real brass knocker upon the real front door until it comes
off, and I have to sit down beside her on the floor and screw it on
again?

Perhaps, however, it is unwise for me to recall these things, and bring
them forward thus in evidence against her, for cannot she in turn laugh
at me?  Did not I also assist in the arrangement and appointment of that
house beautiful?  We differed on the matter of the drawing-room carpet, I
recollect.  Ethelbertha fancied a dark blue velvet, but I felt sure,
taking the wall-paper into consideration, that some shade of terra-cotta
would harmonise best.  She agreed with me in the end, and we manufactured
one out of an old chest protector.  It had a really charming effect, and
gave a delightfully warm tone to the room.  The blue velvet we put in the
kitchen.  I deemed this extravagance, but Ethelbertha said that servants
thought a lot of a good carpet, and that it paid to humour them in little
things, when practicable.

The bedroom had one big bed and a cot in it; but I could not see where
the girl was going to sleep.  The architect had overlooked her
altogether: that is so like an architect.  The house also suffered from
the inconvenience common to residences of its class, of possessing no
stairs, so that to move from one room to another it was necessary to
burst your way up through the ceiling, or else to come outside and climb
in through a window; either of which methods must be fatiguing when you
come to do it often.

Apart from these drawbacks, however, the house was one that any doll
agent would have been justified in describing as a "most desirable family
residence"; and it had been furnished with a lavishness that bordered on
positive ostentation.  In the bedroom there was a washing-stand, and on
the washing-stand there stood a jug and basin, and in the jug there was
real water.  But all this was as nothing.  I have known mere ordinary,
middle-class dolls' houses in which you might find washing-stands and
jugs and basins and real water--ay, and even soap.  But in this abode of
luxury there was a real towel; so that a body could not only wash
himself, but wipe himself afterwards, and that is a sensation that, as
all dolls know, can be enjoyed only in the very first-class
establishments.

Then, in the drawing-room, there was a clock, which would tick just so
long as you continued to shake it (it never seemed to get tired); also a
picture and a piano, and a book upon the table, and a vase of flowers
that would upset the moment you touched it, just like a real vase of
flowers.  Oh, there was style about this room, I can tell you.

But the glory of the house was its kitchen.  There were all things that
heart could desire in this kitchen, saucepans with lids that took on and
off, a flat-iron and a rolling-pin.  A dinner service for three occupied
about half the room, and what space was left was filled up by the stove--a
_real_ stove!  Think of it, oh ye owners of dolls' houses, a stove in
which you could burn real bits of coal, and on which you could boil real
bits of potato for dinner--except when people said you mustn't, because
it was dangerous, and took the grate away from you, and blew out the
fire, a thing that hampers a cook.

I never saw a house more complete in all its details.  Nothing had been
overlooked, not even the family.  It lay on its back, just outside the
front door, proud but calm, waiting to be put into possession.  It was
not an extensive family.  It consisted of four--papa, and mamma, and
baby, and the hired girl; just the family for a beginner.

It was a well-dressed family too--not merely with grand clothes outside,
covering a shameful condition of things beneath, such as, alas! is too
often the case in doll society, but with every article necessary and
proper to a lady or gentleman, down to items that I could not mention.
And all these garments, you must know, could be unfastened and taken off.
I have known dolls--stylish enough dolls, to look at, some of them--who
have been content to go about with their clothes gummed on to them, and,
in some cases, nailed on with tacks, which I take to be a slovenly and
unhealthy habit.  But this family could be undressed in five minutes,
without the aid of either hot water or a chisel.

Not that it was advisable from an artistic point of view that any of them
should.  They had not the figure that looks well in its natural
state--none of them.  There was a want of fulness about them all.
Besides, without their clothes, it might have been difficult to
distinguish the baby from the papa, or the maid from the mistress, and
thus domestic complications might have arisen.

When all was ready for their reception we established them in their home.
We put as much of the baby to bed as the cot would hold, and made the
papa and mamma comfortable in the drawing-room, where they sat on the
floor and stared thoughtfully at each other across the table.  (They had
to sit on the floor because the chairs were not big enough.)  The girl we
placed in the kitchen, where she leant against the dresser in an attitude
suggestive of drink, embracing the broom we had given her with maudlin
affection.  Then we lifted up the house with care, and carried it
cautiously into another room, and with the deftness of experienced
conspirators placed it at the foot of a small bed, on the south-west
corner of which an absurdly small somebody had hung an absurdly small
stocking.

To return to our own doll's house, Ethelbertha and I, discussing the
subject during our return journey in the train, resolved that, next year,
we ourselves would possess a houseboat, a smaller houseboat, if possible,
than even the one we had just seen.  It should have art-muslin curtains
and a flag, and the flowers about it should be wild roses and forget-me-
nots.  I could work all the morning on the roof, with an awning over me
to keep off the sun, while Ethelbertha trimmed the roses and made cakes
for tea; and in the evenings we would sit out on the little deck, and
Ethelbertha would play the guitar (she would begin learning it at once),
or we could sit quiet and listen to the nightingales.

For, when you are very, very young you dream that the summer is all sunny
days and moonlight nights, that the wind blows always softly from the
west, and that roses will thrive anywhere.  But, as you grow older, you
grow tired of waiting for the gray sky to break.  So you close the door
and come in, and crouch over the fire, wondering why the winds blow ever
from the east: and you have given up trying to rear roses.

I knew a little cottage girl who saved up her money for months and months
so as to buy a new frock in which to go to a flower-show.  But the day of
the flower-show was a wet day, so she wore an old frock instead.  And all
the fete days for quite a long while were wet days, and she feared she
would never have a chance of wearing her pretty white dress.  But at last
there came a fete day morning that was bright and sunny, and then the
little girl clapped her hands and ran upstairs, and took her new frock
(which had been her "new frock" for so long a time that it was now the
oldest frock she had) from the box where it lay neatly folded between
lavender and thyme, and held it up, and laughed to think how nice she
would look in it.

But when she went to put it on, she found that she had out-grown it, and
that it was too small for her every way.  So she had to wear a common old
frock after all.

Things happen that way, you know, in this world.  There were a boy and
girl once who loved each other very dearly.  But they were both poor, so
they agreed to wait till he had made enough money for them to live
comfortably upon, and then they would marry and be happy.  It took him a
long while to make, because making money is very slow work, and he
wanted, while he was about it, to make enough for them to be very happy
upon indeed.  He accomplished the task eventually, however, and came back
home a wealthy man.

Then they met again in the poorly-furnished parlour where they had
parted.  But they did not sit as near to each other as of old.  For she
had lived alone so long that she had grown old-maidish, and she was
feeling vexed with him for having dirtied the carpet with his muddy
boots.  And he had worked so long earning money that he had grown hard
and cold like the money itself, and was trying to think of something
affectionate to say to her.

So for a while they sat, one each side of the paper "fire-stove
ornament," both wondering why they had shed such scalding tears on that
day they had kissed each other good-bye; then said "good-bye" again, and
were glad.

There is another tale with much the same moral that I learnt at school
out of a copy-book.  If I remember rightly, it runs somewhat like this:--

Once upon a time there lived a wise grasshopper and a foolish ant.  All
through the pleasant summer weather the grasshopper sported and played,
gambolling with his fellows in and out among the sun-beams, dining
sumptuously each day on leaves and dew-drops, never troubling about the
morrow, singing ever his one peaceful, droning song.

But there came the cruel winter, and the grasshopper, looking around, saw
that his friends, the flowers, lay dead, and knew thereby that his own
little span was drawing near its close.

Then he felt glad that he had been so happy, and had not wasted his life.
"It has been very short," said he to himself; "but it has been very
pleasant, and I think I have made the best use of it.  I have drunk in
the sunshine, I have lain on the soft, warm air, I have played merry
games in the waving grass, I have tasted the juice of the sweet green
leaves.  I have done what I could.  I have spread my wings, I have sung
my song.  Now I will thank God for the sunny days that are passed, and
die."

Saying which, he crawled under a brown leaf, and met his fate in the way
that all brave grasshoppers should; and a little bird that was passing by
picked him up tenderly and buried him.

Now when the foolish ant saw this, she was greatly puffed up with
Pharisaical conceit.  "How thankful I ought to be," said she, "that I am
industrious and prudent, and not like this poor grasshopper.  While he
was flitting about from flower to flower, enjoying himself, I was hard at
work, putting by against the winter.  Now he is dead, while I am about to
make myself cosy in my warm home, and eat all the good things that I have
been saving up."

But, as she spoke, the gardener came along with his spade, and levelled
the hill where she dwelt to the ground, and left her lying dead amidst
the ruins.

Then the same kind little bird that had buried the grasshopper came and
picked her out and buried her also; and afterwards he composed and sang a
song, the burthen of which was, "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may."  It
was a very pretty song, and a very wise song, and a man who lived in
those days, and to whom the birds, loving him and feeling that he was
almost one of themselves, had taught their language, fortunately
overheard it and wrote it down, so that all may read it to this day.

Unhappily for us, however, Fate is a harsh governess, who has no sympathy
with our desire for rosebuds.  "Don't stop to pick flowers now, my dear,"
she cries, in her sharp, cross tones, as she seizes our arm and jerks us
back into the roadway; "we haven't time to-day.  We will come back again
to-morrow, and you shall pick them then."

And we have to follow her, knowing, if we are experienced children, that
the chances are that we shall never come that way to-morrow; or that, if
we do, the roses will be dead.

Fate would not hear of our having a houseboat that summer,--which was an
exceptionally fine summer,--but promised us that if we were good and
saved up our money, we should have one next year; and Ethelbertha and I,
being simple-minded, inexperienced children, were content with the
promise, and had faith in its satisfactory fulfilment.

As soon as we reached home we informed Amenda of our plan.  The moment
the girl opened the door, Ethelbertha burst out with:--"Oh! can you swim,
Amenda?"

"No, mum," answered Amenda, with entire absence of curiosity as to why
such a question had been addressed to her, "I never knew but one girl as
could, and she got drowned."

"Well, you'll have to make haste and learn, then," continued Ethelbertha,
"because you won't be able to walk out with your young man, you'll have
to swim out.  We're not going to live in a house any more.  We're going
to live on a boat in the middle of the river."

Ethelbertha's chief object in life at this period was to surprise and
shock Amenda, and her chief sorrow that she had never succeeded in doing
so.  She had hoped great things from this announcement, but the girl
remained unmoved.  "Oh, are you, mum," she replied; and went on to speak
of other matters.

I believe the result would have been the same if we had told her we were
going to live in a balloon.

I do not know how it was, I am sure.  Amenda was always most respectful
in her manner.  But she had a knack of making Ethelbertha and myself feel
that we were a couple of children, playing at being grown up and married,
and that she was humouring us.

Amenda stayed with us for nearly five years--until the milkman, having
saved up sufficient to buy a "walk" of his own, had become
practicable--but her attitude towards us never changed.  Even when we
came to be really important married people, the proprietors of a
"family," it was evident that she merely considered we had gone a step
further in the game, and were playing now at being fathers and mothers.

By some subtle process she contrived to imbue the baby also with this
idea.  The child never seemed to me to take either of us quite seriously.
She would play with us, or join with us in light conversation; but when
it came to the serious affairs of life, such as bathing or feeding, she
preferred her nurse.

Ethelbertha attempted to take her out in the perambulator one morning,
but the child would not hear of it for a moment.

"It's all right, baby dear," explained Ethelbertha soothingly.  "Baby's
going out with mamma this morning."

"Oh no, baby ain't," was baby's rejoinder, in effect if not in words.
"Baby don't take a hand in experiments--not this baby.  I don't want to
be upset or run over."

Poor Ethel!  I shall never forget how heart-broken she was.  It was the
want of confidence that wounded her.

But these are reminiscences of other days, having no connection with the
days of which I am--or should be--writing; and to wander from one matter
to another is, in a teller of tales, a grievous sin, and a growing custom
much to be condemned.  Therefore I will close my eyes to all other
memories, and endeavour to see only that little white and green houseboat
by the ferry, which was the scene of our future collaborations.

Houseboats then were not built to the scale of Mississippi steamers, but
this boat was a small one, even for that primitive age.  The man from
whom we hired it described it as "compact."  The man to whom, at the end
of the first month, we tried to sub-let it, characterised it as "poky."
In our letters we traversed this definition.  In our hearts we agreed
with it.

At first, however, its size--or, rather, its lack of size--was one of its
chief charms in Ethelbertha's eyes.  The fact that if you got out of bed
carelessly you were certain to knock your head against the ceiling, and
that it was utterly impossible for any man to put on his trousers except
in the saloon, she regarded as a capital joke.

That she herself had to take a looking-glass and go upon the roof to do
her back hair, she thought less amusing.

Amenda accepted her new surroundings with her usual philosophic
indifference.  On being informed that what she had mistaken for a linen-
press was her bedroom, she remarked that there was one advantage about
it, and that was, that she could not tumble out of bed, seeing there was
nowhere to tumble; and, on being shown the kitchen, she observed that she
should like it for two things--one was that she could sit in the middle
and reach everything without getting up; the other, that nobody else
could come into the apartment while she was there.

"You see, Amenda," explained Ethelbertha apologetically, "we shall really
live outside."

"Yes, mum," answered Amenda, "I should say that would be the best place
to do it."

If only we could have lived more outside, the life might have been
pleasant enough, but the weather rendered it impossible, six days out of
the seven, for us to do more than look out of the window and feel
thankful that we had a roof over our heads.

I have known wet summers before and since.  I have learnt by many bitter
experiences the danger and foolishness of leaving the shelter of London
any time between the first of May and the thirty-first of October.
Indeed, the country is always associate in my mind with recollections of
long, weary days passed in the pitiless rain, and sad evenings spent in
other people's clothes.  But never have I known, and never, I pray night
and morning, may I know again, such a summer as the one we lived through
(though none of us expected to) on that confounded houseboat.

In the morning we would be awakened by the rain's forcing its way through
the window and wetting the bed, and would get up and mop out the saloon.
After breakfast I would try to work, but the beating of the hail upon the
roof just over my head would drive every idea out of my brain, and, after
a wasted hour or two, I would fling down my pen and hunt up Ethelbertha,
and we would put on our mackintoshes and take our umbrellas and go out
for a row.  At mid-day we would return and put on some dry clothes, and
sit down to dinner.

In the afternoon the storm generally freshened up a bit, and we were kept
pretty busy rushing about with towels and cloths, trying to prevent the
water from coming into the rooms and swamping us.  During tea-time the
saloon was usually illuminated by forked lightning.  The evenings we
spent in baling out the boat, after which we took it in turns to go into
the kitchen and warm ourselves.  At eight we supped, and from then until
it was time to go to bed we sat wrapped up in rugs, listening to the
roaring of the thunder, and the howling of the wind, and the lashing of
the waves, and wondering whether the boat would hold out through the
night.

Friends would come down to spend the day with us--elderly, irritable
people, fond of warmth and comfort; people who did not, as a rule, hanker
after jaunts, even under the most favourable conditions; but who had been
persuaded by our silly talk that a day on the river would be to them like
a Saturday to Monday in Paradise.

They would arrive soaked; and we would shut them up in different bunks,
and leave them to strip themselves and put on things of Ethelbertha's or
of mine.  But Ethel and I, in those days, were slim, so that stout,
middle-aged people in our clothes neither looked well nor felt happy.

Upon their emerging we would take them into the saloon and try to
entertain them by telling them what we had intended to do with them had
the day been fine.  But their answers were short, and occasionally
snappy, and after a while the conversation would flag, and we would sit
round reading last week's newspapers and coughing.

The moment their own clothes were dry (we lived in a perpetual atmosphere
of steaming clothes) they would insist upon leaving us, which seemed to
me discourteous after all that we had done for them, and would dress
themselves once more and start off home, and get wet again before they
got there.

We would generally receive a letter a few days afterwards, written by
some relative, informing us that both patients were doing as well as
could be expected, and promising to send us a card for the funeral in
case of a relapse.

Our chief recreation, our sole consolation, during the long weeks of our
imprisonment, was to watch from our windows the pleasure-seekers passing
by in small open boats, and to reflect what an awful day they had had, or
were going to have, as the case might be.

In the forenoon they would head up stream--young men with their
sweethearts; nephews taking out their rich old aunts; husbands and wives
(some of them pairs, some of them odd ones); stylish-looking girls with
cousins; energetic-looking men with dogs; high-class silent parties; low-
class noisy parties; quarrelsome family parties--boatload after boatload
they went by, wet, but still hopeful, pointing out bits of blue sky to
each other.

In the evening they would return, drenched and gloomy, saying
disagreeable things to one another.

One couple, and one couple only, out of the many hundreds that passed
under our review, came back from the ordeal with pleasant faces.  He was
rowing hard and singing, with a handkerchief tied round his head to keep
his hat on, and she was laughing at him, while trying to hold up an
umbrella with one hand and steer with the other.

There are but two explanations to account for people being jolly on the
river in the rain.  The one I dismissed as being both uncharitable and
improbable.  The other was creditable to the human race, and, adopting
it, I took off my cap to this damp but cheerful pair as they went by.
They answered with a wave of the hand, and I stood looking after them
till they disappeared in the mist.

I am inclined to think that those young people, if they be still alive,
are happy.  Maybe, fortune has been kind to them, or maybe she has not,
but in either event they are, I am inclined to think, happier than are
most people.

Now and again, the daily tornado would rage with such fury as to defeat
its own purpose by prematurely exhausting itself.  On these rare
occasions we would sit out on the deck, and enjoy the unwonted luxury of
fresh air.

I remember well those few pleasant evenings: the river, luminous with the
drowned light, the dark banks where the night lurked, the storm-tossed
sky, jewelled here and there with stars.

It was delightful not to hear for an hour or so the sullen thrashing of
the rain; but to listen to the leaping of the fishes, the soft swirl
raised by some water-rat, swimming stealthily among the rushes, the
restless twitterings of the few still wakeful birds.

An old corncrake lived near to us, and the way he used to disturb all the
other birds, and keep them from going to sleep, was shameful.  Amenda,
who was town-bred, mistook him at first for one of those cheap alarm
clocks, and wondered who was winding him up, and why they went on doing
it all night; and, above all, why they didn't oil him.

He would begin his unhallowed performance about dusk, just as every
respectable bird was preparing to settle down for the night.  A family of
thrushes had their nest a few yards from his stand, and they used to get
perfectly furious with him.

"There's that fool at it again," the female thrush would say; "why can't
he do it in the daytime if he must do it at all?"  (She spoke, of course,
in twitters, but I am confident the above is a correct translation.)

After a while, the young thrushes would wake up and begin chirping, and
then the mother would get madder than ever.

"Can't you say something to him?" she would cry indignantly to her
husband.  "How do you think the children can get to sleep, poor things,
with that hideous row going on all night?  Might just as well be living
in a saw-mill."

Thus adjured, the male thrush would put his head over the nest, and call
out in a nervous, apologetic manner:--

"I say, you know, you there, I wish you wouldn't mind being quiet a bit.
My wife says she can't get the children to sleep.  It's too bad, you
know, 'pon my word it is."

"Gor on," the corncrake would answer surlily.  "You keep your wife
herself quiet; that's enough for you to do."  And on he would go again
worse than before.

Then a mother blackbird, from a little further off, would join in the
fray.

"Ah, it's a good hiding he wants, not a talking to.  And if I was a cock,
I'd give it him."  (This remark would be made in a tone of withering
contempt, and would appear to bear reference to some previous
discussion.)

"You're quite right, ma'am," Mrs. Thrush would reply.  "That's what I
tell my husband, but" (with rising inflection, so that every lady in the
plantation might hear) "_he_ wouldn't move himself, bless you--no, not if
I and the children were to die before his eyes for want of sleep."

"Ah, he ain't the only one, my dear," the blackbird would pipe back,
"they're all alike"; then, in a voice more of sorrow than of anger:--"but
there, it ain't their fault, I suppose, poor things.  If you ain't got
the spirit of a bird you can't help yourself."

I would strain my ears at this point to hear if the male blackbird was
moved at all by these taunts, but the only sound I could ever detect
coming from his neighbourhood was that of palpably exaggerated snoring.

By this time the whole glade would be awake, expressing views concerning
that corncrake that would have wounded a less callous nature.

"Blow me tight, Bill," some vulgar little hedge-sparrow would chirp out,
in the midst of the hubbub, "if I don't believe the gent thinks 'e's a-
singing."

"'Tain't 'is fault," Bill would reply, with mock sympathy.  "Somebody's
put a penny in the slot, and 'e can't stop 'isself."

Irritated by the laugh that this would call forth from the younger birds,
the corncrake would exert himself to be more objectionable than ever,
and, as a means to this end, would commence giving his marvellous
imitation of the sharpening of a rusty saw by a steel file.

But at this an old crow, not to be trifled with, would cry out angrily:--

"Stop that, now.  If I come down to you I'll peck your cranky head off, I
will."

And then would follow silence for a quarter of an hour, after which the
whole thing would begin again.




CHAPTER V


Brown and MacShaughnassy came down together on the Saturday afternoon;
and, as soon as they had dried themselves, and had had some tea, we
settled down to work.

Jephson had written that he would not be able to be with us until late in