CHAPTER VIII
July 13th.
I like to watch the Belgian hares eating their trifolium or pea-pods orgrass; graceful, gentle things they are, crowding about Mr. Heaven, andstanding prettily, not greedily, on their hind legs, to reach for theclover, their delicate nostrils and whiskers all a-quiver withexcitement.
As I look out of my window in the dusk I can see one of the mothersgalloping across the enclosure, the soft white lining of her tail actingas a beacon-light to the eight infant hares following her, a quaintprocession of eight white spots in it glancing line. In the darkestnight those baby creatures could follow their mother through grass orhedge or thicket, and she would need no warning note to show them whereto flee in case of danger. "All you have to do is to follow the whitenight-light that I keep in the lining of my tail," she says, when she isgiving her first maternal lectures; and it seems a beneficent provisionof Nature. To be sure, Mr. Heaven took his gun and went out to shootwild rabbits to-day, and I noted that he marked them by those same self-betraying tails, as they scuttled toward their holes or leaped toward theprotecting cover of the hedge; so it does not appear whether Nature is onthe side of the farmer or the rabbit . . .
{Mr. Heaven . . . went out to shoot wild rabbits: p59.jpg}
There is as much comedy and as much tragedy in poultry life as anywhere,and already I see rifts within lutes. We have in a cage a Frenchgentleman partridge married to a Hungarian lady of defective sight. Hepaces back and forth in the pen restlessly, anything but content with thedomestic fireside. One can see plainly that he is devoted to theBoulevards, and that if left to his own inclinations he would never havechosen any spouse but a thorough Parisienne.
The Hungarian lady is blind of one eye, from some stray shot, I suppose.She is melancholy at all times, and occasionally goes so far as to beather head against the wire netting. If liberated, Mr. Heaven says thather blindness would only expose her to death at the hands of the firstsportsman, and it always seems to me as if she knows this, and is evertrying to decide whether a loveless marriage is any better than the tomb.
Then, again, the great, grey gander is, for some mysterious reason, outof favour with the entire family. He is a noble and amiable bird, by farthe best all-round character in the flock, for dignity of mien and large-minded common-sense. What is the treatment vouchsafed to this blamelesshusband and father? One that puts anybody out of sorts with virtue andits scant rewards. To begin with, the others will not allow him to gointo the pond. There is an organised cabal against it, and he sitssolitary on the bank, calm and resigned, but, naturally, a trifle hurt.His favourite retreat is a tiny sort of island on the edge of the poolunder the alders, where with his bent head, and red-rimmed philosophiceyes he regards his own breast and dreams of happier days. When theothers walk into the country twenty-three of them keep together, and BurdAlane (as I have named him from the old ballad) walks by himself. Thelack of harmony is so evident here, and the slight so intentional anddirect, that it almost moves me to tears. The others walk soberly,always in couples, but even Burd Alane's rightful spouse is on the sideof the majority, and avoids her consort.
{Out of favour with the entire family: p61.jpg}
What is the nature of his offence? There can be no connubial jealousies,I judge, as geese are strictly monogamous, and having chosen a partner oftheir joys and sorrows they cleave to each other until death or someother inexorable circumstance does them part. If they are ever mistakenin their choice, and think they might have done better, the world is nonethe wiser. Burd Alane looks in good condition, but Phoebe thinks he isnot quite himself, and that some day when he is in greater strength hewill turn on his foes and rend them, regaining thus his lost prestige,for formerly he was king of the flock.
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Phoebe has not a vestige of sentiment. She just asked me if I would havea duckling or a gosling for dinner; that there were two quite ready--thebrown and yellow duckling, that is the last to leave the water at night,and the white gosling that never knows his own 'ouse. Which would I'ave, and would I 'ave it with sage and onion?
Now, had I found a duckling on the table at dinner I should have eaten itwithout thinking at all, or with the thought that it had come fromBarbury Green. But eat a duckling that I have stoned out of the pond,pursued up the bank, chased behind the wire netting, caught, screaming,in a corner, and carried struggling to his bed? Feed upon an idiotgosling that I have found in nine different coops on nine successivenights--in with the newly-hatched chicks, the half-grown pullets, thesetting hen, the "invaleed goose," the drake with the gapes, the oldducks in the pen?--Eat a gosling that I have caught and put in with hisbrothers and sisters (whom he never recognises) so frequently andregularly that I am familiar with every joint in his body?
In the first place, with my own small bump of locality and lack ofgeography, I would never willingly consume a creature who might, by somestrange process of assimilation, make me worse in this respect; in thesecond place, I should have to be ravenous indeed to sit downdeliberately and make a meal of an intimate friend, no matter if I hadnot a high opinion of his intelligence. I should as soon think of eatingthe Square Baby, stuffed with sage and onion and garnished with greenapple-sauce, as the yellow duckling or the idiot gosling.
Mrs. Heaven has just called me into her sitting-room, ostensibly to askme to order breakfast, but really for the pleasure of conversation. Whyshe should inquire whether I would relish some gammon of bacon with eggs,when she knows that there has not been, is not now, and never will be,anything but gammon of bacon with eggs, is more than I can explain.
"Would you like to see my flowers, miss?" she asks, folding her plumphands over her white apron. "They are looking beautiful this morning. Iam so fond of potted plants, of plants in pots. Look at these geraniums!Now, I consider that pink one a perfect bloom; yes, a perfect bloom. Thisis a fine red one, is it not, miss? Especially fine, don't you think?The trouble with the red variety is that they're apt to get "bobby" andhave to be washed regularly; quite bobby they do get indeed, I assureyou. That white one has just gone out of blossom, and it was reallywonderful. You could 'ardly have told it from a paper flower, miss, notfrom a white paper flower. My plants are my children nowadays, sinceAlbert Edward is my only care. I have been the mother of elevenchildren, miss, all of them living, so far as I know; I know nothing tothe contrary. I 'ope you are not wearying of this solitary place, miss?It will grow upon you, I am sure, as it did upon Mrs. Pollock, with allher peculiar fancies, and as it 'as grown upon us.--We formerly had abutcher's shop in Buffington, and it was naturally a greatresponsibility. Mr. Heaven's nerves are not strong, and at last hewanted a life of more quietude, more quietude was what he craved. Thelife of a retail butcher is a most exciting and wearying one. Nobodysatisfied with their meat; as if it mattered in a world of change!Everybody complaining of too much bone or too little fat; nobody wishingtough chops or cutlets, but always seeking after fine joints, when it'sagainst reason and nature that all joints should be juicy and all cutletstender; always complaining if livers are not sent with every fowl, alwaysasking you to remember the trimmin's, always wanting their beef well'ung, and then if you 'ang it a minute too long, it's left on your 'ands!I often used to say to Mr. Heaven, yes many's the time I've said it, thatif people would think more of the great 'ereafter and less about theirown little stomachs, it would be a deal better for them, yes, a dealbetter, and make it much more comfortable for the butchers!"
{The life . . . is a most exciting and wearying one: p65.jpg}
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Burd Alane has had a good quarter of an hour to-day.
{His spouse took a brief promenade with him: p66.jpg}
His spouse took a brief promenade with him. To be sure, it was during anabsence of the flock on the other side of the hedge so that the moraleffect of her spasm of wifely loyalty was quite lost upon them. Istrongly suspect that she would not have granted anything but a secretinterview. What a petty, weak, ign
oble character! I really don't liketo think so badly of any fellow-creature as I am forced to think of thatpolitic, time-serving, pusillanimous goose. I believe she laid the eggthat produced the idiot gosling!
The Diary of a Goose Girl Page 8