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Title: Bucolic Beatitudes

Author: MacGregor Jenkins

Illustrator: Decie Merwin

Release date: April 17, 2023 [eBook #70573]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Atlantic Monthly Press

Credits: Bob Taylor, hekula03 and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUCOLIC BEATITUDES ***





  Transcriber’s Note
  Italic text displayed as: _italic_




BUCOLIC BEATITUDES




  BUCOLIC BEATITUDES

  BY

  _RUSTICUS_

  [Illustration: Decoration]

  _ILLUSTRATED BY_
  DECIE MERWIN

  THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS
  BOSTON




  COPYRIGHT 1925 BY
  THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS INC.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




  _To My Wife
  who lets me do these things_




CONTENTS


                                                                _Page_

    I _Blessed be the Dog_                                           1

   II _Blessed be the Pig_                                          17

  III _Blessed be the Hen_                                          35

   IV _Blessed be the Cow_                                          51

    V _Blessed be the Horse_                                        71

   VI _Blessed be the Garden_                                       91




BLESSED BE THE DOG




[Illustration: Dogs running]




BLESSED BE THE DOG


My dog has but one eye. He was the beginning of things. Just how far
he has controlled my destiny, just how far he has shaped the lives
of those about him, will never be known until the dull human mind
has evolved a keener perception of the real values of life and has
learned to become conscious of influences too subtle to be recognized
by man in his present fallen estate. This is certain: he was the
beginning of things. It was he who opened the door and led the way.

I have always felt that I owe that dog an apology which only a life
of devotion can express. The bitter truth is—I bought him. What
I paid for him is one of those personal secrets which will remain
locked in my bosom to the end of time. It is one of those sacred
things that even an Internal Revenue Inspector must dismiss in
reverent awe, and the Head of the Household must rest content with
the explanation that there are but two hidden things in my life: one
is the price paid for the dog in question and the other is the extent
of my devotion to my wife. After the matter is presented in these
terms, further inquiry seems indelicate.

But the bitter fact remains—I did buy him. A dog should never be
purchased, should never be made the subject of barter and dickering.
A dog may be rescued from abuse, he may be bestowed and accepted
as a gift, he may be borrowed and never returned, he may be found
and kept, and, in cases of real necessity, he may be stolen in a
dignified manner; but he should never be bought. I have heard of
men who make a livelihood from the purchase and sale of dogs. I can
conceive of them as good husbands and kind fathers, but they still
seem to me inhuman monsters, engaged in a sinister traffic.

There seems to be one relationship in a social structure now
completely dissected and exposed under the microscope of social
investigators, which remains inviolate—a relationship which owes
its immunity from investigators to the stupidity characteristic
of investigators who ignore the significant and tear the obvious
and unimportant into worthless tatters. That relationship is
the profoundly significant one existing between a good, bad, or
indifferent child and a dog.

With what wealth of ritual do we bestow a name upon a child; with
what ecstasies of formality do we celebrate her taking a mate; and
yet with what casual indifference do we give that child the first
dog! We create a contact—as our scientific friends like to call
it—the importance of which no one can conjecture, with a callous
unconcern that is the only proper measure of our ignorance.

Here if anywhere is an excuse for formality and the most elaborate
and significant ritual. Here is a real chance for genuine good cheer
and the sincerest merrymaking, quite unlike that forced and somewhat
doubting hilarity that characterizes the average marriage-feast.
For in this case we perform the one act allowed us in this earthly
pilgrimage in which we are sure to be right: we cannot make a
mistake. And certainly when that crowning moment of our existence
comes—when as in the fairy tale we make the one wish allowed us—we
should do it with a high degree of decorum and with all decent
elaboration of detail.

I say we cannot make a mistake—I mean from the child’s standpoint. We
may create a relationship trying to the dog, by giving him to a very
inferior child upon whom he must lavish years of loving instruction
before improvement appears, but we cannot hurt the child by giving
him a bad dog, for the simple reason that there is no such thing,
broadly speaking, as a bad dog.

There is the occasional dog, of course, who has not withstood the
corrupting influences of human associations as well as his more
fortunate brothers, but even he is vastly better than no dog at all.

And once the contact made, the relationship established, what
unlimited vistas of speculation lie temptingly before the reflective
mind! Those two little figures on the hearthrug—one in the image of
man, one showing the sleek and perfect lines of a half-wild creature.
Two heads together—one of tousled gold, the other close-cropped and
tapering to nostrils of nervous sensitiveness; a relaxed and callous
paw held firmly in a dimpled human hand. What are they saying to each
other? What lies back of those limpid canine eyes, half closed to the
glare and warmth of the hearthstone? Something is going on between
them, some delicate transmission of emotion, thought, or stimulus,
which we know is infinitely good for the soul of the child and we can
hope does no harm to the dog.

An unfamiliar footstep is heard, and the picture changes. The
relaxed and languid creature is transformed in an instant from
a musing, tolerant playmate to a bristling bundle of potential
destruction. He stands, alert and vibrant, muscles tense, set for any
contingency, ready for any emergency and any sacrifice. The emergency
passes, and with an apologetic shake to relieve the tension of his
muscles and a half-sneeze to clear the dryness of expectant fangs, he
settles once more upon the hearthrug, to resume his mystic communion
with the only person in the household with whom he is on terms of
complete mutual understanding.

These are the perfect hours of childhood and doghood. They pass, like
all perfect things, and are followed by long hours of separation,
while the child is absent in one of those institutions ingeniously
contrived to remove him from the priceless opportunities of
improvement in the society of a dog and to lighten the duties of
idle parents, in exchange for a fleeting familiarity with what is
cryptically called the “l.c.d.” And while the child is incarcerated
in one of those centres of juvenile infection what prodigies of
patience does the dog perform!

In my own case there happen to be two avenues of return from these
dreary absences, and for long before the hour of arrival they
must be watched. Owing to the entire absence of one eye this is a
delicate operation, but Cerberus has found one point where with the
least muscular exertion he can sweep his tiny horizon with his one
remaining eye. And so he waits—not with the imbecile nervous tension
and restless pacing of his master, but relaxed and resting.

Suddenly he becomes alert. The peculiar rattle of a certain rear
wheel on a certain automobile is recognized by those miraculous ears
long before the solitary eye can see the car. He is off—the long
vigil is over. Once more life is sweet and full of interest and
adventure.

It is idle to prate of the lessons he teaches. They have been told
and retold. Patience, loyalty, devotion—we know them all. It is in
the finer shades of his relationship with those about him that his
quality appears. His is a wonderful life. Countless hours are spent
in investigation. Every nook and cranny, every tree and every stone,
every dark and mysterious hole, every living creature in pasture,
garden, or stable must be run to earth. What sort of data is he
gathering, I wonder? What use does he make of it? I do not know;
but it is being stored away and tabulated for future reference in a
vastly more usable and convenient form than any card index devised by
the bungling brain of his master.

These are the busy hours of dog life. How often we encounter him bent
on some important errand! I have a friend, the only adult I ever
met who really knows a dog—and by the same token he is that rare
thing, the gentleman. He too enjoys a long and solitary tramp, and he
often meets on the highways and in the wood paths his various canine
acquaintances bent on matters of importance. He makes a practice of
saluting them with a cordial but respectful “Good morning” or “Good
afternoon,” with perhaps a passing allusion to the fine weather.
This by way of tribute to a fellow creature with mutual tastes.

But Cerberus knows that all work and no play is a dangerous method
of life, and so hours are devoted to recreation. The duties of
guardianship and the demands of education are laid aside, and
he shows us how to play. Madly, intently, with no thought of
appearances, he rushes into play, preferably with others but
alone if necessary; and the simplest things suffice—a stick, a
stone, a floating bit of feather is all he needs. No elaborate
toy, no calculated programme, no long planning, no arguments and
disagreements as to the _terminus ad quem_, resulting in half-hearted
enjoyment or utter boredom (the usual result of human recreations),
nothing but utter abandonment to the pleasure of the moment. I envy
Cerberus his play more than I ever envied my neighbor’s laboriously
acquired and oppressive wealth.

Play over, then comes rest—rest as complete and perfect as the play.
Stretched on the grass or before the fire, relaxed and languid,
every muscle slack and every nerve quiet, he sinks to slumber
profound and absolute. Sometimes a bit of joyous memory steals into
his slumbering mind; an ear will cock, a paw will twitch, but for an
instant, and he is again at perfect peace.

Then the call will come. Duty summons in the form of some sound
inaudible to human ears, some suspicious odor too delicate to disturb
a human nostril, and he is up. Back in harness, recreated, rested,
ready for any demand upon that marvelous supply of nervous energy.
And a neurasthenic generation wonders at it, while Cerberus patiently
tries to teach by actual practice the simplest rudiments of health to
a stupid and inattentive class of grown-up dunces.

That much vaunted and greatly overestimated thing called intellectual
life, which humans use as a convenient excuse for all sorts of
self-indulgence, is to Cerberus only the nice adjustment of dog data,
knowledge, and experience to the needs of his complex relationships
with those about him. These adjustments are delicate and intricate,
for Cerberus lives, moves, and has his being, not in a world of
understanding fellow-dogs, but with creatures duller than he and
filled with every form of prejudice and conceit. Add to this the fact
that these same folk represent to him not men and women, but for
all practical purposes of immediate recognition and other important
dog-matters nothing more nor less than a moving forest of male and
female legs. How would you prosper, my proud dog-baiting relative,
if your point of view was from eight to fifteen inches above ground,
and if your horizon line could be extended beyond a few paltry yards
only by a painful lifting of the head or the securing of some vantage
point for observation? I fear, my friend, you would cut a much sadder
figure than Cerberus at his worst.

And so his days pass. They are full of work and rest and play and,
above all, a constant effort to square his dog mind to a man world.
He does it pretty well; he does it better, on the whole, than man
squares his to a God-made world. At least, his effort seems more
sincere, his attitude vastly more dignified and honest.

The day’s work is over. Childish hands are clasped in slumber,
maternal cares are soothed in the first sweet sleep of night, and
paternal irritabilities are in the process of partial elimination by
pipe and book and armchair and open fire.

Cerberus lies with his head across his master’s foot, a convenient
arrangement allowing contact to replace sight on the blind side;
and the seeing side commands the door. The autumn wind sways bare
branches against the tiny house. Faint odors of apples and other
products of the little farm seep up from the cellar, where in modest
store they flank the winter’s firewood piled in orderly array. The
year is dying. Cerberus stirs in his sleep. I lay my hand upon his
lean side. I pause to feel the rapid beating of his little heart,
scarcely slowed at all, even in sleep. Would that some power could
slow it down; it will wear out all too soon—and then!

A door creaks. He rises; no bristling fury, no growling menace,
only an orderly and methodical investigation of every corner of the
room and hall. Then a dignified return and sleep resumed. A subtle
compliment to his master’s competence, a mere gesture of coöperation
with a trusted superior—this is one of those delicate adjustments of
dog life to a man-made world. Of these Cerberus is a past master.

He sleeps. His “trusted superior” glances at the title of the book he
reads and lays it on the table. No need to read now, when Cerberus
teaches. The book is a scholarly treatise on _The Mastery of Nerves_.

[Illustration: Dog sleeping on foot]




BLESSED BE THE PIG




[Illustration: Man leaning over wall]




BLESSED BE THE PIG


My neighbor has many broad acres upon which he pays the taxes and
over which I ride and walk—an admirable arrangement. He likes to pay
taxes and I like to ride where the footing is soft and the paths are
shaded. This is only one of the many advantages which I possess in
having so amiable and excellent a man for a neighbor.

To be sure, his orbit is a bit more extended than mine, and we meet
but seldom. He nevertheless adds enormously to my pleasure, for his
manner of life is ornamental and leisured. He does things suavely
and without hurry. His surroundings suit him admirably, and when he
takes tea in the garden, dressed in spotless riding-togs, he is every
inch the picture he thinks he is.

My somewhat covert admiration of his sartorial perfection has been
a bit marred, however, by a suspicion that his life was not one of
full-flavored and perfect rusticity. It seemed too perfect in detail,
just a bit studied. A tumble-down stone wall separates my entire
estate from one corner of his domain. It is not a well-preserved or
suburban looking wall. I know it is my duty to repair it. I mean to
sometime. Over this wall on rare occasions we hold conversation, and
it was while thus engaged that I unwittingly discovered his secret.
I had said something about pigs and, not wishing to appear superior
or improperly proud of my worldly possessions, I inquired as to
how his pigs “did”—pigs are one of the few animals who “do.” To my
surprise, he told me that he did not keep pigs, not even a pig; in
fact, he would not tolerate one on his place. Then I knew his secret,
I realized the flaw in his pretentious rusticity.

I turned and walked sadly away. There are times when people reveal
themselves so shamelessly and in such bland innocence of the awful
revelations they make that the kindest thing you can do is to leave
them in ignorance of their guilt.

Then a disquieting thought came to me: if Midas dislikes pigs so
much, perhaps he dislikes mine, and wishes them removed. Perhaps he
meant to go on and make the suggestion. It was well that I left him.
I hastened my step lest he call me back.

Presently I found myself in earnest contemplation of the creatures
held in so low esteem by my neighbor. I looked tenderly at them. I
recognized the mood: it was the familiar one that is experienced when
you hold in your hand a most unflattering report from your eldest’s
preceptor, and the tiny culprit stands before you waiting the
utterance of reprimand or sentence. This mood, by some strange twist
in my mind, always prompts immoderate and boisterous laughter, which
must be restrained in the family circle; but to-day I was safely
out of hearing. My neighbor was taking tea by now in an ornate and
inaccessible garden, and I found myself shaken with Homeric laughter
as I leaned over the low wall and shared my merriment with two most
astonished pigs.

Of course Midas would not keep a pig! I might have known it. Midas
chops trees in a silk shirt. That in itself is not inherently base
or sordid, but he grunts (it is not a pretty word, but he does) when
his axe strikes the tree or log he is man-handling in an utterly
inaccurate imitation of a real chopper with a real axe striking real
blows. He fails to synchronize properly and betrays the amateur. I
have even heard him describe a pack of hounds as “dogs”! I was not
thinking pleasant thoughts of Midas. I did not try to; I knew I was
through with him. Our wives might continue to exchange biennial
calls, we might even exchange a word or two over the wall, but for
all intents and purposes I knew I was through with Midas. How silly I
had been—of course Midas would not keep a pig.

And what a pity! By one of those wise provisions of a benign
Providence this crowning glory of rusticity is within the reach
of the humblest, except those unfortunates who dwell in congested
districts where a perverse public opinion has legislated against this
highly useful animal. But then, no self-respecting person would live
in such a place anyway.

There is no need to enlarge upon the economic value of the pig. The
billboards and the press are radiant with tasteful illustrations of
the appetizing final state of this succulent animal. It is in other
ways and for other reasons that I admire and love him.

He is the one animal with which man can ever hope to be on intimate
terms, who is an incorrigible wag. He is the humorist of the farm. It
seems strange that it should be so. Bred for countless generations
for nothing but culinary purposes, daily approaching an inevitably
tragic end, he has preserved inviolate the comic tradition. When
opportunity presents, my friend, look attentively at those little,
glittering eyes and you will see a waggish twinkle that will
convince you that you are in the presence of a humorist.

To get the very best out of your ownership of a pig, thought should
be given to his habitat. An enclosure is necessary. Now then; have
the enclosure of such a height that your elbows rest comfortably upon
the top, arrange a soft and agreeable footing on the windward side
of the enclosure, and all will be well. Your relation with a pig is
not an intimate one; he is not to be handled except in early infancy;
and you will find that merely to contemplate him, as you stand in a
comfortable and relaxed attitude with some support to the body, will
yield a rich reward.

They should be secured young. There is in a very young pig an
innocent joyousness that will amuse you in the early stages of your
acquaintance and will give you food for thought as your intimacy
grows. And then the pleasure of seeing them grow! If you have a low
and commercial type of mind you can calculate daily your profit,
even after deducting the interest on your modest initial investment.
The upkeep is not a heavy item. One of the most charming things
about a pig is his heartfelt gratitude for the delicacies which a
wasteful and ignorant generation regard as inappropriate for human
consumption; and to beneficent use he puts them, returning literally
an hundredfold.

But it is not these sordid considerations that lead me to love a pig.
It is the intellectual sympathy existing between us that endears him
to me.

In the first place; a pig, more than any of your other animal
friends, looks like many people you know. The moment you see a new
pig you have at once a dozen names in mind, every one of them fitting
perfectly. I will admit that I have encountered a curious prejudice
on the part of some people against having a pig named after them.
This can be remedied in a simple and most effective manner. In my
case, I have a pig that irresistibly reminded me of a near relative,
a man of pronounced opinions. That settled his name. On formal
occasions and for reference in certain quarters I use a coldly
classic name with no special significance; but at the twilight hour,
when that pig and I hold communion, I address him by his lawful given
name.

I have had pigs who possessed a variety of aliases. In such a case,
as I talk pleasantly with one or the other, I go through the list
until I use the one name I know to be his by every right of pigship.
An ear pricks up, a roguish eye twinkles a bit more brightly, and
after a delicately executed _pas seul_ around the enclosure, he is
back once more, demure and attentive.

And how attentive he is! He stands with ears erect, fore feet firmly
planted in the empty trough, his little eyes raised to mine, and his
nostrils twitching with interest and anticipation. In that posture he
is the living image of a lady I know, as she leans over her teacup
to catch the last syllable of innuendo in the last titbit of scandal
that is making its rapid circuit of our little town. So I address my
remarks to Mrs. Jones, and relate to her incidents in the lives of
mutual friends no less apocryphal than those so much enjoyed by my
neighbors. And Mrs. Jones’ eyes twinkle, and her nose twitches, and
her tail curls tighter and tighter in sheer delight, until I burst
into laughter with a guilty fear that I may have been overheard—may
have so set in motion a new series of stories that would inevitably
bring disaster to some of our most respected townsfolk.

There is a direct simplicity about a pig. He knows no affectations.
He has but two ends in view: one is to wax fat,—and how splendidly he
does it,—the other, to amuse with a subtle, ironic humor. He lives a
curiously circumscribed life in utter and absolute contentment. He
has none of that nervous intellectual intensity that is so wearing to
live with. He has no illusions; he indulges in no moods or fancies;
but what a wonderful companion he is—the very flower of discretion!
Your most intimate confidences are safe with him.

The older he grows, the more closely in his stately prime does he
resemble the president of our local bank until, at times of financial
stringency, I can hardly bring myself to visit him. I know if he
could speak he would say something about an impending overdraft. He
knows it too, and as he waddles over toward me he puffs and grunts
a bit in covert imitation of the great man whom he knows I fear. I
am quick to act on his suggestion. It suits my mood. There are plans
afoot which will soon necessitate a visit to that temple of finance.
It will be well to be letter-perfect in my part, though I know from
experience that my part in the dialogue will be unimportant, once it
gets under way.

The visit starts with an effusive welcome, as Moneybags extends a
moist and yielding hand. A wan smile flits for a moment across his
impassive countenance, and the judicial manner is once more assumed.
How are things with me? Well, he hopes. But at times like these it is
difficult to tell—very difficult. A faint note of pessimism already
begins to creep into the monologue. General business conditions are
unsatisfactory; there has been overproduction in certain industrial
lines; the situation in the Near East is not what he would like to
have it. Dark hints of revolution and tottering governments, of an
uncomfortable feeling in Wall Street, lead naturally to a detailed
description of the appalling condition of the farmer (here I begin to
be sympathetic), due to the presence of either too much or too little
gold in the country, and I am newly impressed by the unfortunate
circumstance that I either am or am not a citizen of a debtor nation.
I do not quite know which it is, but it is dreadful, whatever it is,
and I find myself suddenly filled with compunction that I should
have come to this noble, suffering person with my paltry needs. I
begin to see dimly that I am only adding a feather’s weight to the
staggering load that this self-forgetful Atlas is already carrying,
as single-handed he supports the financial fabric of the world.

Moneybags pauses, a chubby hand plays nervously with a delicate
ivory paper-cutter. He glances apprehensively at the door; his voice
becomes a husky whisper as he alludes to general conditions of
unrest among the working classes, their utter lack of appreciation
of what is being done for them, and the certainty that things will
be worse before they are better. Long ago my little errand has been
forgotten in a flood of sympathy for a man so harried by world
problems.

At this point Moneybags observes a delicate morsel in a far corner of
the trough and he moves away to investigate. It proves attractive,
and he forgets me in his efforts to secure it. It is well, for at
that moment we are joined by the companion of his sequestered life.
It is Mrs. Murphy, the excellent woman who does the cleaning and
other important matters in the little house yonder.

She comes abruptly; her manner has none of the poise and dignity
which have always endeared her companion to me. She is vocal, she is
positive, she knows what she wants and goes after it with commendable
directness. I fear she is, like myself, hopelessly middle-class. But
I like her. It is a relief to converse again with a pig who talks my
language and with whom I have much in common. For Mrs. Murphy and
I have many mutual interests—taxes, interest, mortgages, plumbers’
bills, insurance premiums, indigent relatives, and growing children.

The talk turns to other channels. Things are not well with Mrs.
Murphy; her rent has been raised on account of conditions in the Near
East, there has been illness, food is very dear. I try to explain to
her that this is due entirely to unsettled conditions in Russia, but
without great success.

Her sister’s children—oh yes, they are with her. Yes, six of them.
The two eldest are in an “institooshun.” Thomas will soon be at work,
she hopes. Her lord and master is just at present unemployed, but as
soon as he comes out of the hospital he hopes to get half-time.

Mrs. Murphy glides easily from the concrete to the abstract. It is
the rich who are to blame. They are growing richer, and the poor
poorer. She looks scornfully at the towers of the palace beyond the
stone wall. I hasten to tell her that we are not on terms now, that
I too am out of sympathy with Midas. She seems appeased.

I try to remember all the dreadful things Moneybags told me. It is
no use. Moneybags was right. The working classes do not, will not
understand; but I have a suspicion that Mrs. Murphy and I do not
quite understand Midas and Moneybags.

A joyous bark is heard. Shrill voices pierce the air. School is over
and life really begins. I leave this oddly assorted pair to work out
their problems, grateful for an hour of perfect peace in the presence
of perfect understanding.

       *       *       *       *       *

Finally, a pig is the only animal friend with whom I am able to part
at an appropriate time without bitter grief and self-reproaches. It
is not that I am not sincerely attached to him by the subtlest ties
of kinship, but there seems to be only one logical finale of our life
together. If the parting is delayed too long, the relationship loses
something of its old-time zest, the flower is fading, and dull and
apathetic habit replaces the first sweet fervor of fellowship. It is
well to let the parting come in proper season without vain regrets.
And even after the parting there is opportunity for affectionate
remembrance. Your breakfast takes on a new and interesting
significance. As the delicate morsel rests before you, you inhale its
subtle aroma, you see the slender stripes of delicate color, and you
wonder—you wonder—

The pig has a secure niche in the Temple of Letters. The gentle Elia
has enshrined him for all time. But by a curious chance even Elia
emphasized the gastronomic aspect of his fame without reference to
his waggish quality. It is well that the benign Dr. Dolittle has
placed before us his true picture in Gub-Gub, beloved of children.

And now, my friend, the fever of the day is over. The twilight hour
has come with its suggestion of peace and contemplation. Come with me
and we will rest awhile. Let me introduce you to a friend of mine, a
person of importance in local financial and social circles. He will
amuse you.

And when you reach that time in your life when you begin to suffer
from the chronic irritability of the man over fifty, when you begin
to get a bit queer, and quarrel with your neighbor simply because
he wears expensive and becoming raiment, when you need a solace and
an unfailing source of understanding fellowship, when you begin to
feel the need of occasional soul-communings with Nature’s subtlest
humorist and most perfect clown, apply to me; I will sell you a pig.
And, having dined at your table, I know he will “do” well.

[Illustration: Pig at trough]




BLESSED BE THE HEN




[Illustration: Hens near fence]




BLESSED BE THE HEN


There dawns a day when the big rock to the south of the stable looms
black against the shrinking snowdrifts. A crumbling Gibraltar stands
beneath the apple trees, its turrets wasted by the sun, its massive
walls fast melting to decay. Gone is its grandeur; gone are its brave
defenders; no sign of them remains save one scarlet gauntlet, lost in
repelling the last desperate sally of a departed foe, now the sodden
and solitary reminder of an epic winter.

A strange new life is stirring within the little house. Steps are
quicker, voices gayer; new tasks come with every hour. A joyous
restlessness sets life a-tingle; windows open, and mops are shaken.
Curious caps appear over familiar female faces. All is bustle,
eagerness, and mirth.

Outside, great rich black spots of earth appear. The first green
things look out from garden tangles, and the sun pours its prodigal
warmth into every dark and frozen corner.

There dawns a day set by no calendar, decreed by no lawgiver, when
the mystic ritual of spring must be observed. Long since have
fireside tasks and recreations been a mockery. Long since a strange
and willful discontent has set us all on edge. For many days the
leaping blood in little bodies had been ringing out its imperious
command; and yet it was not time. Then at last we know the time has
come.

With perfect understanding we set forth. Down through the land
new-ploughed last fall, by the willows with their magic mist of
spring, through the pine woods where snowbanks still lie purple in
the hollows about the giant trunks, on to the river bank.

There it lies before us at full flood, lazily rafting its harvest of
broken ice to the sea not far away. Where the sun lies warm the bank
is open, and the black water curls at our feet with little intimate
chuckles of delight.

We follow the well-known path. No words are needed, no shouted
directions or commands, until in a bend of the stream we reach our
goal. Sharp knives whip out. The tender branches are bent gently
down, and with a clear, firm cut the sprays fall at our feet. Not
many—just enough to place with reverent hands in a certain place in
a certain room. Our little store is divided into three exactly equal
parts, and each bearing his share, we turn toward home. Now tongues
are loosed and once more the litany of spring is chanted. Home in the
half light of the afternoon, back to lights and warmth, but it is not
the same. We feel a presence. The dark, outside, is friendly; the
warm wind no longer sobs in the chimney top; the lights lie soft on
the sleek gray tufts of the willow branches in the big green vase.

We all know what the morrow will bring forth, but we do not like
to talk about it. We hint at something of rare significance, but
our talk just skirts the edges of direct allusion. It must be done
as always done before: no variation, no vulgar interpolations or
changes, no deviation from accepted and time-honored tradition. All
is in readiness and all will be well.

The morning dawns. There is no haste, all is decency and order. But
when the sun is warm, once more with high intent we seek the open.
Down the little avenue, past the pear trees to the stable, past the
paddock, through a tiny gate to a low, long building near a shabby
wall.

The doors are closed, the windows screened with cotton cloth. We
pause to listen and hear busy scratching and muffled talk. Down the
long yard, enclosed by wire netting, to the gate—a bit awry and
uncertain on its hinges, but bravely has it withstood the wintry
winds. We fumble at the wooden button that holds it fast. The gate
opens and we stand aside.

A moment’s tense silence while the world waits. Then the Duke of
Wellington appears, resplendent in his spring apparel. With shrewd,
inquiring eyes he cocks his head, and his great red wattles shake
with eagerness. A step nearer, and then he speaks. A brief word of
command, and out from crowded winter quarters come the ladies of his
household. With the Field Marshal in the van they reach the gate.
Another moment of inquiry and then, with feet high lifted and yellow
toes curled close, they take the first step of the year in the great
outdoors. We count them as they pass. We exchange knowing glances.
All present or accounted for, save one. We know which one, and so we
wait. It is but a moment when, with shrill cries of alarm and many
aimless tackings, the delinquent appears. Yes, it’s Mrs. Cuttle,
always anxious, always late, always perturbed and scolding violently.
True to form she begins the season. Mrs. Cuttle has long since
outlived her productive years, but she is retained as a moral lesson,
and it is not lost: to “cuttle” is a cardinal sin. May her anxious,
vociferous life be spared for years to come, sobeit she will only
continue to impress on all the vacuity of “cuttling.”

The Field Marshal now has his forces deployed as skirmishers, and
like the prudent commander that he is, takes his place well in
the rear, where with all-pervading eye he watches the rank and
file. They are locating and examining each bit of bare ground,
Mrs. Cuttle keeping her place in line with great difficulty and
greater uncertainty. We listen for the food song. There are those
who pretend that a hen possesses no vocabulary. Dull the ears that
cannot hear her endless variations of a simple theme. The food song,
a long succession of monosyllabic interrogatives, is one of her most
endearing performances. Now it comes to us, and we know the quest is
rewarded. We gather closer and watch the Field Marshal. The moment
will be here soon. Will the ceremony be complete? Will it close with
the usual crashing crescendo that we love?

He steps proudly along; he pauses, looks about, the sun gleaming on
the noble iris of his neck. He steps to an upturned clod of earth
and balances delicately on it. Slowly his wings begin to move. He
is erect, noble, effulgent. His wings flap wildly, he throws back
his head, and with comb and wattles blazing in apoplectic ecstasy,
he sounds the clarion call. It rings in our ears, it tingles in our
blood. It is more than the fitting climax of a perfect drama; it is
the call to action. Tasks await us, enthralling undertakings, and we
must not delay. But delay we do, for a moment to feel the glowing
warmth of the heightening sun, to let the sweet southwest wind blow
in our faces, to smell the cool, wet odor of the awakening soil.

We listen in the stillness for a voice. Eager eyes turn toward the
willows, parted lips and straining ears wait for the message, and
it comes. The little brook beyond the willows now is free and he is
talking to us!

But now to work. First the tools must be collected from strange
hiding-places, boards and nails, pails and brushes, all the jovial
paraphernalia of building and repairing. The deserted henhouse
is cleaned in every corner: nests and roosts, floor and ceiling.
What glorious dust, what proud disdain of clothes and hands,
what prodigies of skill and strength mark the full sweep of our
enterprise! New litter on the floor, new hay in the nests, windows
washed, and screens removed. By night the returning wanderers find
all in order.

But this has been only one day; we know more glorious ones will
follow. As the days go by we work more slowly, for we must not spend
these golden hours too freely.

Then all is ready. There must be a dry, warm day with just a breath
of wind. Pails are brought and we mix the magic brew: pure white
lime, bubbling and steaming. The cauldrons simmer; we stir and
mumble strange enchantments, old magic words of bygone ages; we
croon strange songs, and stir, and stir. It is finished—whiter than
anything imagined, smooth as velvet; there is nothing like it.

Inside we go. We put it on in lavish manner. It drops; it spots; it
spatters; and it will burn if you are unwary. We emerge exultant.
For once we have had enough of something, and how we have reveled in
it! A general appraisal of our clothes is made, and bad as they are,
we are sure they are not so bad as they were last year.

Happy in the completion of this undertaking, we rest awhile. For
days we glory in the matchless product of our skill, but we know
this leisure must not last. That is the great fact at the bottom of
man’s devotion to the hen. She is an insistent creature and goads
you on to activity. She demands an industry equal to her own. There
are only brief, infrequent periods of contemplative pleasure in your
association with a hen. No hours of easy talk, no placid silences,
no moments of tender abstraction. A hen does not sentimentalize, she
acts, and she insists that your relationship be that of a working
partner; but how richly she rewards the conscientious performance of
your duty to her!

Already there are signs in the Field Marshal’s household that new
duties will soon confront us. Some of the ladies are becoming
querulous. With ruffled feathers, they scold the hours away. They
even lose their appetites and refuse to go outdoors. They are
watched, and many consultations held. Some evening the great news
comes. Already a place has been prepared, and so at dusk with lighted
lantern three conspirators creep abroad. Thirteen chosen eggs are
borne to a secluded retreat, and there we find her, spread to an
incredible breadth, with head drawn in, beady eyes snapping, and
a vicious beak ready to strike if you make an unguarded motion.
The lantern is held aloft and one by one the eggs are laid before
her. With gentle pressure she takes them and stows them away in the
recesses of the feathers. Food and water are placed near, and we
tiptoe away, awed by this mystery of life.

Tiny new abodes must be prepared, and long hours are spent sitting
in the sun, mending, painting, renewing homes for the expected
offspring. What hours they are! The talk is good: it ranges through
the heights and depths of life, its magic and its mystery. Serious
discussion of practical details of construction follows close on the
heels of myth and fable. So the twenty-one days pass. The last are
feverish. It is hard not to interfere, we feel that we could do so
much to help, but bitter experience has taught us that the stupidest
hen, even Mrs. Cuttle, knows more about the matter in hand than we
do. We are humbled.

On the twenty-first day at twilight we again seek her out. There
she is, immovable, spread deeper and wider than ever. Worn with her
long vigil, pale and wan, she resolutely waits. Presently there is
the faintest shadow of a movement under the protecting feathers. The
watchers exchange excited whispers; then slowly, one after the other,
we lean down and listen close to the maternal breast. A feeble sound
is heard, and eyes are wide with wonder.

Then follow days of unremitting toil, not unmixed with anxiety and
cruel disappointments. Tragedies come which spoil a day for us, but
it is part of the game, part of the great game we are trying to
learn to play with poise and patience.

       *       *       *       *       *

I sit on the paddock fence and smoke my pipe. I watch the sun sink
low behind the woodland to the west. Up from the ploughed land comes
the Field Marshal with his host. When I first see him he has them in
extended order; as he comes to more difficult terrain, he skillfully
manœuvres them into a column of fours and passes me in perfect array.
I drop to my feet and come to a rigid salute. He passes the reviewing
stand with glittering eye and haughty step. I notice that on the
return into familiar country he is at the head of the column. And
what a picture he makes! Here is a bird, methinks, who never has had
and never will have an “inferiority complex.” And, after all, he is
acting his little part well. What more can man or bird do? Play your
part in the drama—and what a drama it is!

Lights glimmer in the little house. I must go. I thrust my pipe deep
into my pocket without knocking the heel out—a habit I practise, but
deplore; it has grown on me of late years. I walk toward the house.
At the lilacs by the hedge I stop.

The soft air is full of myriads of little voices; small rustling
things disturb the grass; the soft sod yields beneath my step, and
pungent odors float down the wind. Life, imperious life is singing in
the night its message of growth. Grow and multiply, grow, grow for
to-morrow the harvest. And the very stars in the heavens swing low to
listen.

A shrill cry of distress reaches my dreaming ears. I start, but
I know from whence it comes. It is Mrs. Cuttle, late as usual,
blundering homeward in the dark.

[Illustration: Rooster crowing]




BLESSED BE THE COW




[Illustration: Cow and man at gate]




BLESSED BE THE COW


I lay at full length on a shaded piazza and pretended to read
my excellent farm paper. The midsummer heat made this form of
agriculture the only agreeable one.

“What,” asked my eldest, “is a bovine ruminant in three letters?”

“A bovine ruminant,” I responded, “is what the editor of this journal
calls a cow. The young gentlemen who edit a certain literary weekly
with which I was once familiar would call a cow a bovine ruminant.
That is why I no longer take in the literary weekly and continue to
read the farm journal.”

“Thanks,” she said, “It fits nicely.”

“You are fortunate to find anything that fits in this crazy world,” I
answered, and leaped to my feet.

I was in bad humor. Things were at sixes and sevens, and besides, I
had lost my pipe. This was not an unusual event, in fact, it is lost
about half the time. But for this happy circumstance I know I should
smoke too much.

I have an efficient friend, whose wife keeps her kitchen spoons
arranged on revolving wooden cones, who suggested once that a simple
solution of my difficulty would be to have two pipes. That is exactly
what an efficient man would suggest, never stopping to consider the
inconvenience of having to hunt for two lost pipes. One is bad enough.

I slouched into the garden and sat down on a bench. It had been
exposed to the sun for some hours and was hot. I succeeded, however,
in locating my pipe in an entirely improper and unorthodox pocket. I
was rather sorry I found it, for my tobacco was moist and would not
burn properly.

It soon became obvious that I could not remain where I was. I rose
and started on an aimless round of my small estate. Never had it
looked worse; never was there plainer evidence of a hundred sins of
omission and commission. I bit my pipestem savagely as I passed the
lilacs. Cerberus lay in a cool hollow in the shade. He glanced up
at me and decided to remain where he was. That hurt me, but I would
not call him, and I went on alone. The paddock was empty. That was
good—no place for a horse in the boiling sun. I looked into the
stable. Everything was wrong, too many stall windows closed; but I
won’t open them. On through the gate—open, of course, in the face of
definite orders to keep it closed. I won’t close it, but I will see
about that later. I looked into the henhouse; nothing but drooping
birds in utter dejection, save Mrs. Cuttle, who was rolling in
drunken ecstasy in a dust hole in the yard.

I decided it was cooler in the house. Perhaps if I laid some tobacco
on a newspaper in the sun for a time things would be better. I
determined to try it.

As I approached I heard voices. There were white-clad figures in
the garden—the dresses looked thin and cool. I caught the sound
of laughter, gentle and well-bred, and the clink of ice in glass.
For one moment I stood irresolute, and then I fled. Down past the
strawberries I hurried. I crouched behind the rose trellis, and made
the open. I did not want to run,—I might be observed,—so I assumed an
air of importance and walked as rapidly as possible over the rough
ground. I climbed the stone wall; a loose stone fell and scraped my
ankle. I said something and hurried on. A great elm tree shades the
corner of this pasture; I sank to the ground in sheer exhaustion
beneath its extended branches. Now I was safe.

I took off my coat and tried to put it between my back and the tree.
What a lot of nonsense, I thought, is talked about Mother Nature. I
never lay on the ground comfortably in my life; something always
pricks or tickles or crawls, and it is hard. Now a low chair in a
shaded garden with a cool drink in a tall glass, that might—but no, I
would rather lie here until numb with stiffness than go back now.

Why people you don’t care about insist on breaking into the privacy
of people they don’t care about is a mystery to me. This whole fabric
of social life is a tissue of pretense, an empty trading in social
coin: a dinner for a dinner, a luncheon for a luncheon, a call for
a call, with a sweeping clearance-sale once a year in the form of a
crowded miscellaneous affair called a tea.

Those people there in the garden. I do not know who they are, but I
can guess. I am well out of it; I am sure I am not interested in the
domestic details of their lives, and they are all talking at once
about their servants or their children. Unpleasant as my present
situation is, I am quite content to stay here until they go and life
returns to the pleasant channels of normal privacy.

I tried sitting up straight; I even tried to cross my legs,
tailor-fashion—this proved an anatomical impossibility. I remembered
the tobacco, rose, and laid some out on a stone near at hand. As I
did so I heard the swish of grass, and the family cow moved placidly
into the area of shade. With delicate deliberation she lay down, and
we found ourselves face to face. If she was surprised she did not
betray it. She looked at me with great liquid eyes as tranquil as a
forest pool. I noticed her nose. How flat and big and wet and cool it
looked! I decided she was a good-looking cow. I hope she is as good
as she looks, for she constitutes the entire herd.

I have a friend, a most engaging person, who combines profound
knowledge of a dozen sciences with an encyclopædic erudition in
regard to cows. He asked me once if she was a grade cow. I said I did
not know, but she had a curious metal tag in one ear. He explained
the significance of the tag, and smiled. I like his smile—he has
wonderful teeth—poor fellow, he does not smoke enough to ruin them.

There being nothing else to look at, I looked at Dolly. She was
chewing her cud. The slow rhythmic precision of her technique
fascinated me. I particularly admired the sideways movement of
the lower jaw. She stopped; a gentle genuflection of the neck was
noticeable; and she resumed. I had never had such a chance to observe
a cow before and I made the most of it. I felt that I was seeing for
the first time the noble dignity of her head, her broad fine brow,
and above all the eyes, serene and beautiful.

She was tormented by flies, but she ignored them except for a lazy
swish of her tail. A distant train whistled; a car screeched on the
highway; she did not move, but chewed serenely on.

I found it growing cooler; the tobacco experiment was a success.
I discovered an agreeable hollow in the ground and fitted myself
comfortably into it.

I recalled those far-off bitter days when I did not own a cow,
when her only substitute was the rattle of bottles in an alley at
some grim hour before dawn. What fiendish delight the purveyor of
those bottles took in banging area gates! I have never known any
early-morning milkmen intimately, but I have often wondered what
their private lives might be. I suppose they enjoy the rights of
citizenship—they may have homes—I wonder.

Then I looked at Dolly’s eyes again. I could not resist them. I
recalled the age-old story of the maiden changed to a heifer by
a jealous god. I noticed for the first time a look of imprisoned
sadness in her eyes. There was a gadfly in that story too, I
remembered, and it drove her into the sea. Unlike mortals, Dolly has
evidently developed an immunity to gadflies.

What wonderful old stories those are! How young the world was, and
how it has changed! All but Dolly; she is as she was, grazing on the
slopes of Olympus. It is man who has hurried and worried himself from
change to change until he can no longer see the beauty of the simple,
lovely, unchanged thing.

How cool the breeze, how sweet the odor of the grass! The
restless spring has passed. The year has grown; and now the full
accomplishment of summer meets the eye. The season pauses, and for
a few matchless weeks we see no change. Nature rests; her work is
well-nigh done, and you are free to see it all if you will only look.

Dolly rose to her feet and turned slowly toward the bars. No need
to clang the hour in jangling notes from tawdry towers; Dolly has
met the tryst at the meadow gate ever since Pan piped the shepherd’s
flocks to madness. I rose too, and we went together to the gate. I
let down the bars and we stepped through. She stopped to crop a tuft
of grass. I slid my arm over her neck, and through the meadow where I
fled in haste we walked side by side with measured tread toward the
sweet-smelling barn.

The demands of my small estate are modest, but I employ the
services of one associate and fellow worker. He must be a man of
varied talents and tireless industry and above all, for my entire
satisfaction, he must be gifted with a sense of values, a feeling for
the fitness of things. This is hard to find.

I hate to make a change, but occasionally it has to be done, and
that involves the ordeal of interviewing applicants, a duty I loathe
and perform badly. The interview always changes from an inquiry
into the applicant’s fitness for the place into a lengthy apology
on my part for the duties imposed. I have the courage, however, to
make my decision hang on his answers to two questions. When last
struggling with this problem I was called upon by a brisk young man
who impressed me tremendously. He seemed the sort of person who would
romp through his day’s work by noon and have the rest of the time to
devote to the small details never attended to properly with me. I
had made up my mind to entrust myself to his masterful direction. I
paused before applying the final test; I eyed him narrowly.

“Do you milk?” I asked.

A deprecatory smile flittered across his face; that was all. The
question was too absurd to require a verbal answer.

“Do you milk—reverently?” I asked.

“In my last place,” he answered, “we milked by electricity.”

I dismissed him. What a preposterous idea! I would as soon cultivate
my roses with a caterpillar tractor.

The next applicant was an inefficient-looking elderly man with kind
eyes. He had nice wrinkles. I count a great deal on wrinkles.

I asked him the crucial question. For one moment he searched my very
soul with twinkling eyes.

“I try to,” he said.

And so the Incomparable One came.

As Dolly and I pass the rose trellis behind which I had skulked an
hour before, I square my shoulders and walk upright like a man. Here
Cerberus joins us. He rubs a cool, moist nose in the palm of my hand
and trots quietly beside me.

Two khaki-clad little figures appear from the house, carrying between
them a glittering pail. The Incomparable One springs from the earth
somewhere, and we all meet on the gravel path before the door.

The Incomparable One, with a broken riding-crop as his badge and
insignia of rank, takes my place and gently directs Dolly’s progress.
We fall behind and wait outside till Dolly has drunk her fill and is
standing in her accustomed place. Once, pail in hand, I had preceded
her, but my error had been made plain to me, and I never transgressed
again.

Dolly now in place, the Incomparable One returns. With hands and
arms glistening from recent soapy ablutions, he takes the pail and
holds it to the sun. He examines every inch of it critically and with
deliberate care. The process is always observed by an Hibernian lady
from a kitchen window with whole-hearted disapproval. This daily
episode is the only incident in a busy life in which my perfect
servitor is not the very flower of tact and discretion.

His examination complete, we go where Dolly waits. He takes his place
on gently tilted stool; we stand one side. He pulls his rolled-back
sleeves an inch higher, his great firm hands are rubbed together,
and then the fingers flex in smooth preparatory exercises. He leans
forward and gently touches each teat in turn. From each he pulls
a tiny lactic stream and lets it fall upon the clean rye straw
beneath his feet. This is not done because—as held by some—the first
milk contains more impurities than the rest; it is a libation, a
propitiatory offering to whatever god there be who presides over the
destinies of cattle and impecunious rural sentimentalists.

And now an upward glance. A little figure, each in daily turn, takes
its place, and Dolly’s swinging tail is gently held at rest. The pail
is raised to its position between extended knees, and all is ready.
I notice that the milker adheres to the proper school. I do not
hold, myself, for a position with the forehead of the milker pressed
against the bovine flank; rather, I like to see the left knee gently
touching the off hind leg. It is a satisfaction to see things done
with a nice attention to detail.

And now we hear the first streams strike the bottom of the empty
pail. The shrill staccato of their impact is the overture, soon
muffled by the increasing flood. The cadence slows; we are in the
full orchestral swing by now. The milker’s bowed head is slowly
raised, and, as the white foam nears the top, he looks aloft. He
sways a bit on his tilted stool; his head moves gently back and forth
like some inspired conductor carrying his musicians through the
difficult passages of a mighty symphony. And now the beat quickens,
the little streams leap into the rising tide of foam with soft
lisping sounds. A final volley; then a few soft notes, long-drawn,
and it is done.

The milker rises, flushed, triumphant. He casts a quick appraising
glance at the pail.

“Half quart off to-night—the grass is getting dry,” he says.

Our messengers wait, and with the heavy pail between, carry our
precious spoil kitchenward. Once, when the going was slippery, an
accident occurred. But that is not spoken of now.

I glance about the tidy stable. How well he keeps it! Windows
closed against the noonday heat now open to cooling breezes of
late afternoon. The little gate to the back land, swung hospitably
open, invites me to explore its familiar mysteries. I visit the pigs
and have a cheerful moment as I note that even here are care and
cleanliness. The henhouse, freshly whitewashed, smells of lime, and
sleek fat fowl are busy with fresh litter on a dry, clean floor.
Cerberus is at my side; my pipe draws cool and sweet.

I remember the garden and the white-clad guests. I shake what dust
I may from coat and trousers—I find the guests have lingered. The
garden lies half shadowed; sweet flowering things in gay profusion
line the soft green turf; a bluebird glides from treetop to tiny pool
to drink and bathe.

Gracious ladies sit in gentle talk beneath the trees. I join them. I
note with satisfaction that the group contains none save the choice
elect. They know the easy give-and-take of talk. They have a feeling
for silence, the one true test of gentle breeding. Their clothes,
a mystery beyond my ken, are those I like—sheer, simple things
with graceful lines; their hands, the firm, strong hands of ripened
womanhood, with scant adornment. Tiny feet, well shod, are—like their
hands—at rest. These four who so adorn the scene are the only ones I
know who can sit still.

We talk, each as we choose: the homely task, the book, the play, the
careless unthought talk of friends. I feel an utter thankfulness:
my lines in very truth have fallen in the pleasantest of places.
And well may I be thankful, for many moons may wax and wane before
this group, by happy accident, shall meet again in perfect mood and
perfect weather. And to think I almost missed it! What brought me
back? What happened over yonder, ’neath the tree where Dolly grazed?

The shadows lengthen. One by one, with laughing eyes, the guests
betake themselves to homes made blessed by their presence. And now we
sit in silence. Back from duties well performed, the children come.
Tired little bodies seek the softness of the close-cropped grass.
Cerberus sees that all is well, and sinks to slumber by my chair.

Peace, perfect peace, comes with the setting sun.

The evening meal is ready. Grudgingly we leave the glamour of the
hour. As we cross the grass, a voice says, “I am glad you joined us.
It was pleasant.”

And as I stop to fondle Cerberus at the door I think I hear—I am not
sure—the same voice saying, in a soft aside, “So, blessed be the cow.”

[Illustration: Kids carrying pail]




BLESSED BE THE HORSE




[Illustration: Three horses]




BLESSED BE THE HORSE


I live in a hunting-country. Every autumn our stone walls show tiny
red banners marking the run, and the talk is much of horse.

I do not hunt, myself: my interest in the sport is purely academic.
But of one thing I am sure—from an æsthetic standpoint there is no
sport like it.

On occasions the run passes within sight of my abode, and sometimes
it begins or ends within a stone’s throw of my outdoor bedroom. Those
are the rare mornings. No need to watch the clock. You lie secure and
warm, half sleeping, half awake, when slowly you hear far off that
magic sound of beating hoofs—not the sharp rattle of steel on harsh
macadam, but the low beat of distant hoofs on good firm earth. There
is no sound like it. You catch a suggestion of it sometimes when you
ride alone, and horse and rider share the glory of a run across some
open meadow before you turn for the long, cool walk homeward with
loose rein and lowered head. But to hear it in its perfection scores
of hoofs must beat in unison, and it must begin far off and come on
toward you with growing intensity.

I hear it and sit up. I pull the blankets close. It is frosty. Stray
wisps of mist still lie in the hollows. From chaste retirement I can
view the whole panorama. The hounds swing round the corner of the
woods, tiny specks of brown-and-white in full cry, followed close by
splashes of scarlet. On they come, they take each intervening wall
smoothly and without effort. The field follows, strung out in orderly
observance of the rules and courtesies, whatever they may be, of this
regal game. And all the time the music of the hoofs swells about me,
teases, tempts, and troubles.

The pack stops by the elm tree in Dolly’s pasture. A grizzled rider
yaps his immemorial call, as old as hunting, as ancient as this noble
sport itself. He tosses tidbits to the eager pack: their scant reward
for miles of breathless coursing, unless the run itself be their
reward. The old man has ridden many times like this; he knows the
best there is to show. I wonder sometimes how he thinks we do at this
old sport in this new country, for he has ridden with the best across
the seas. I watched the hounds as they swept in and knew he must be
pleased, for close-packed they came, as if they would make good his
boast that one horse-blanket could cover them—the final and unfailing
test. The field is in. The Master, magnificent in scarlet, sitting
a fretful horse with smiling composure, greets them all, a friendly
word and kindly smile for stragglers coming in a bit abashed. The
steaming horses move in easy circles, while grooms attend the more
exalted riders.

They take the highway and in laughing groups go down the road. A boy
appears and plucks the red pennants from the walls. It is done.

I nestle down. Once more my eyes have seen the glory of the field.
I am content, and doze once more, and once again I feel unbounded
admiration for the men and women who can so disport themselves before
they break their fast.

At an appropriate and fitting hour I repair to my own stable. I
do this with some hesitation, for on these mornings, when the
hunting-world has swung into our orbit, the Incomparable One greets
me with a manner somewhat vague and questioning. He is not quite
sure of me and not convinced that his own status is just what he
would wish it to be. Why I am not afield he does not know; a horrid
doubt assails him. On these mornings I tread with circumspection the
devious paths of horsy talk.

Even in my little stable there is a strange unrest. Eyes are
brighter; ears are up; nervous hoofs are pawing.

I look them all over; first my own (of course, no man may talk of
what is “his” with any truth), one in a thousand, purchased for a
song, as is my wont by stern necessity, rescued from menial labor
and now pet and darling of us all, perhaps a bit too much horse for
me, but kind and willing, wise and spirited. The other two, black
ponies with white stars, as like as sisters save that one has two
white feet and one has one. Each owns a little mistress whom she
loves, and these two ponies are as like their riders as if all four
were sisters—one nervous, one sedate; one eager at the bit and to be
handled with a steady hand, the other willing, always in the van, but
temperate and steady. Just a word, and she is back in hand. One curb,
one snaffle, so it goes. But use them both aright and all is well.

There are two pleasures in this horse-relation, one afield and one
here in the stable. To-day it is indoors, for the promise of the
morning has failed. Already a gentle rain is falling and the woods
are wet. I love to potter about a stable. A clean stable is the
nicest-smelling place in the world. Why feminine nostrils object to
stable smells indoors I never could understand; but that is only one
small part of a greater riddle.

The Incomparable One has learned to know my oddities. One of them
is an unreasonable passion for soft leather and glittering metal.
What lovelier thing can mortal hand touch than leather, smooth and
clean, as soft and supple as velvet? The trappings of my steeds are
meagre and far from the best. I see that all is safe, no weak spots
at buckles and other secret places; but once safe, that is as far as
I can go, except that I believe and teach the simple theory that the
poorer the tack the greater the care. And the Incomparable One does
wonders. The bridles hang against a clean white cloth; the brow-bands
in perfect alignment; the curb against the wall; the snaffle broken,
lying on the curb; the chain over the snaffle; reins looped high in
perfect symmetry. There is a sight to please: the saddles on their
racks with irons off, smooth, clean, and soft; no dust, no soap in
crevices, betray an artist’s hand. The irons hang on cleaning-hooks
and wait a final polishing. The feed room next, with its supplies.
And now aloft to where the sweet hay lies in dusty half-lights. What
a place to dream an hour away, and what a play-place for little
people, their minds afire with all the mystery and romance of their
first young years!

And now it rains in earnest. I find a small green stool; I take it
to the door and sit me down. An open stable-door, a windless rain,
a dog beside you, and a bedraggled hen or two to scratch outside.
This is the perfect place to be. The moist, damp odors all about you,
the sound of restless hoofs, the grind of teeth on hay, the dropping
water from the eaves fill ears and heart and soul.

What a strange thing it is that a certain type of biped called Man
should have chance dominion over all the other creatures! How he has
bound them to his service! And of them all no one has suffered as the
horse.

He seems more sensitive than the others. No horse has bad habits,
save man-taught ones. What a score on some far-off Judgment Day has
the horse to settle with his master, man! And that is why I like to
fuss with horses. I like to try to show them that this relationship
can be agreeable to us both. I have no feeling for an outlaw horse,
but any horse that has not had unfortunate human relationships too
long is worth the experiment.

The horse is a habit-making, habit-controlled creature. The trick
seems to be, so far as my very meagre experience has shown, to teach
good habits. And of all the creatures I know man is in some ways
the least fitted to teach them. He is vain, imperious, and often
cowardly; that is why a perfect horseman is just a bit more rare than
a perfect poet. I have long since given over any ambition to write an
epic poem, but I do hope, if life be spared, by patience, humility,
and the sternest application to the task, to learn to ride a horse. I
doubt my ultimate success, but somehow I feel that if I ever do, in
the face of almost insuperable obstacles both physical and mental, it
will be a splendid achievement.

The golden autumn days go by and the first suggestion of real winter
comes. We have, however, here and there a day dedicated to the horse.

Such a day dawns. It is the day that with us is devoted, in theory,
to the memory of a Genoese sailor, and is made by beneficent
legislation a holiday, a day free from the thralldom of office and
school! It has been decided that the morning shall be spent in tasks;
there shall be an early lunch, and then a ride, timed to bring us
back through the woods when the sun is low and streams in level
golden shafts between the trees.

I seek the stable. Already preparations are afoot. My garb alone is
warrant for the news. I watch the horses cleaned. I never watch a
workman without a thrill, if only he be a real craftsman, a man who
loves his work. And such a one is he who cleans my horses. I can
clean a horse after a fashion, but here is consummate art: free swing
of comb and brush following the graceful lines of the creature’s
body; the softly spoken word to soothe impatience; the low soft
whistling sound that none but the elect can manage; the tap of comb
on hoof or floor; the fearless, accustomed handling of a horse. A
perfect art, and loved, I know, by horse as well as man. What little
skill I have in other things I’d gladly trade if I could clean a
horse the way this old man does.

The hours lag, but now we meet for lunch. Plans are discussed, our
course laid out. We make the meal a mockery and hurry to the stable.
No having horses brought round to the door—not in our simple life are
things like that. We seek them out, and make the pleasure greater.

They stand in single file upon the floor, saddled and bridled,
waiting our command. Each is covered with a bright plaid cooler; ears
are erect, and nervous lips jingle the shining bits.

The Incomparable One is as busily important as if each steed were a
prospective Derby winner. We pull off the coolers, each our own. We
fold them up and hang them on the rail, and then we drop restraining
hitching-ropes and go out single file. No mounting on a slippery
stable floor; we want good gravel, smoothly packed beneath our feet.
And then I watch to see if lessons have been learned: three things to
do before you mount. I smile at the Incomparable One, and he smiles
too, as little hands seek saddle girths. A gentle tug; they are all
right, not loose, not tight. Then the throatlatch: it must rest light
and easy. Then the curb, to see if it be smooth. All is reported
right, so then we mount. We feel again a moving creature under us; we
feel the gentle lift of smooth, straight legs, and we are off.

I take my place with Two Feet on my right. I notice two links are
dropped on her curb chain—it is well. One Foot sedately takes her
place upon my left; her curb swings loose; no need for a free hand on
that side.

We cross the first meadow at a walk. Two Feet capers and frets a
bit; she has not learned yet what One Foot knows so well, that we
walk this meadow to test the tack, to feel the seat we have, to find
the irons, and to learn the mood that horse and rider share to-day.
We turn into the next; and now a word, and heads come up and off we
trot. A gentle pace, but still enough to bring the breeze to our
faces, and now we hear the hoofs, the soft sound of yielding leather,
and the click of steel. I look from right to left. Youth still
fretful and impatient on my right, so I suggest a little lighter
hand, a soothing word; upon the left, Experience trots with even
temper and with steady stride.

Before us lies a smooth, ascending swell. I ask if we are ready,
irons back, feet forward. Then a gentle pressure of the heel, a rein
drawn lightly, and three creatures leap. Youth takes the lead; a
word must bring her back. This is no race or steeplechase. So back
she comes, but shakes her head and dashes foam upon her shoulder.
Experience travels neck and neck with me, a tranquil eye, but
nostrils quiver, and I wonder if she is recalling days when this pace
was mere play for her. At the brow of the hill we pull up and loosen
rein. Three heads go down a bit; we ease our seats, and I can see
the glow in cheeks and eyes that must mean joy and health in future
years.

And now a long walk to the woods. We talk of hands and knees, of
heels, and of our mounts, each feeling that we ride the very best.
And so it goes, walk, trot, and canter. Yes, my friend, that’s all.
I know it all seems tame to you. We hack, I know, but hacking at its
best is all we ever hope or want to do. It is enough. It takes us
out; it gives us joy to feel that we can do that much, and day by day
we hope to do it better.

And now we reach the woods. The sun is right. We go in single file,
with Experience ahead to show the way, and Youth comes next, and Age
brings up the rear.

I look ahead at those two little figures. They are learning the
hard lessons: constant care, constant thought, the hands, the knee,
how often do I speak the word! How hard they try, and how fast they
learn! I sometimes think it arrogant to teach; they do as well as I,
and better too at times. But now no lessons for the woods entrance.
Dry leaves are on the path and squirrels scold and scurry. We
shout back and forth, “Oh, look! See this, and that!” And then a
new tremendous enterprise portends; a strange, new path leads—none
of us knows where. We take it, and we wind and twist. What glorious
fun, what adventure! and we shout with glee when it brings us out in
well-known pastures far from home.

We turn across the broad acres of a friendly neighbor; a narrow,
shaded lane invites. A stern sign posted at the gate warns all away,
but we are of the elect and enter in. We are under the pine trees
now; the needles pave the path. Oh, what a footing! Once more we
trot, and almost without sound of hoof we whirl along. Youth is
calmer now; she works with us; she has learned the pace and keeps her
stride unbroken. Experience asks for more bridle; she knows where she
is, and wants a freer head on the long upgrade that brings us to my
neighbor’s house.

He sees us and waves his hand. He sits in a great chair upon his
lawn. A perfect horseman, he will never ride again, but it is joy to
him to see the children come, for to such as they he must pass the
torch of gentle sportsmanship. And now the crowning moment comes. We
swing into a great field, again my kindly neighbor’s, and questioning
eyes are turned to mine.

All right, we will—but careful now! I know the ground, it’s smooth,
without a hole, and yonder is a tiny jump, put there by kindly
thought for children. I show the way, and as I turn to watch the
others, Experience follows; her stride is easy, every nerve at rest.
She takes the tiny jump as part of her day’s work and canters up and
stops. Youth now comes, pulling just a bit and nervous in her stride.
She takes it well, but jumps a foot too high and does not want to
stop when she is over. She will learn; when she has learned she will
know that half the work will do it just as well.

And now the end. We whirl. We let them go. For one short moment we
thunder side by side. We hear the hoofs; we feel the plunging bodies
between our knees; we see the foam blown in the wind. The earth
glides under us; we seem to fly. How sure the feet, how mighty are
the muscles that hurl us forward! And how our hearts beat and how our
faces tingle!

Now we turn toward home. Cool horses out, cool horses in, is our
rule. We walk side by side and talk of our adventures. We tell where
we were right and where we blundered; how wonderful the horses were;
of the beautiful things we saw; of our friends who let us ride
over their good land; how to do this and when to do that; all the
wonderful minutiæ of the greatest sport in the world. We turn down
our little avenue; we come home formally and in order.

The Incomparable One is waiting. We dismount, and he takes my horse,
out of deference to age and general incapacity. My comrades take
charge of their own. We have learned it all—how saddles come off and
what you do with them; how bridles come off and where to put them;
what to do with the horses and why. What a world of fun it is! The
sugar is brought, and glistening necks arch and gentle lips fondle
the sweet offering lying in the flat palms of little hands. And
then to the house, to talk it all over again with the world’s most
attentive listener.

When bedtime comes, I see a light in the stable and go down to find
the Incomparable One in the tiny saddle-room.

Somehow that last gallop has made me feel a bit more his peer. So
the talk is once more easy, and for an hour it runs. Shrewd, kindly,
brave the old man is, and somehow I feel that his body has been
kept young and strong, his soul serene and sweet, by his simple,
whole-hearted love of horse.

[Illustration: Horse and dog]




BLESSED BE THE GARDEN




[Illustration: Garden fence]




BLESSED BE THE GARDEN


I had as soon read fairy stories to my children in the Congressional
Library as to walk in some of the gardens I have seen. For me a
garden should be part of one’s abode, simply another room to step
into when the mood requires, a place for early morning investigation
and for evening solitude. And such a garden is mine. Why gardens
should be made solely a place of exhibition, why they should be
tortured into tedious formality and used only on social occasions, is
a mystery to me.

Like a good many other things, the use made of gardens by their
owners depends a great deal on the owner’s attitude toward gardens in
general.

I am familiar with two; one the grand manner, which dismisses all
details to underlings and which accepts the garden simply as a useful
decorative accessory of a highly ornamental life. This manner,
for the most obvious of reasons, is not mine. Nor do I accept the
over-intimate and prying fussiness of some garden owners: those good
people who tell you they know every plant and every flower, who
dilate on the doubtful pleasure of doing all the work themselves, who
brazenly acclaim the fact that the garden has no secrets from them.

I feel like saying to them: “Dear sir, or madam, what is—what can be
your idea of a garden? Is it a laboratory? Is it a workshop? Is it a
public house? Do you not know that a becoming reticence is Nature’s
greatest charm? She does not want you prying about with your little
shovel; she knows what she is doing. Your relation with your garden
is quite different from that with your iceman. It is wise to know as
much as you can about your iceman, but do leave your garden in peace.
Beside, you are in a fair way to lose all that is best in having a
garden, if you have not done so already.”

I feel toward a garden a good deal as I do toward a beautiful woman:
I do not want to know how she gets her effects.

My feeling about garden work is quite different from my feeling about
any other work I do on my small place. I love to slave in a stable
or henhouse, for there must be no secrets in either, but I find that
great discretion must be used in my work in my garden.

It is only fair to say that, anatomically, I am singularly unfitted
for much of the work required. It is a long way to the ground, and
to work doubled over, with my head between my knees, I find both
tedious and unprofitable. But quite apart from this there are many
cogent reasons for my dislike of this kind of work. I know people
who delight in visiting a hotel kitchen, that they may see their
feast in preparation. I regard this as little short of sacrilege. A
perfect meal is a work of art, and why they should want to witness
the sordid details of its preparation is a wonder to me. So it is, or
should be, with a garden. The perfect product should be accepted in
its perfection, without too much inquiry into or participation in its
early stages.

So I delegate as much of this work as I can to hands more competent
than mine, contenting myself with tentative suggestion and occasional
oversight. The man-made and man-arranged part of a garden interests
me but little; it is when Nature takes command, and, left to herself,
begins to work her miracles that the beauty and the mystery of the
garden call me to wonder and to worship.

Certain chosen tasks are my delight. An entirely unsystematic and
listless weeding is one of them, though I confess that the uprooting
of any growing thing always brings a pang of doubt to my mind. Often
have I nurtured some alien plant and allowed it to flourish because
I could not bring myself to tear it up, and passed anxious days
lest it be discovered by those in authority. I like to take under
my charge those plants that do not flourish, for I know it is man’s
stupidity that makes them backward—some defect in their environment
or arrangement. I try to solve the riddle, and sometimes I succeed.
Some corner, some spot ill favored by sun or soil, fails to provide
a living for anything put there; what delight to learn the secret,
correct the error, and produce strong growth and hardy blossoms!

But my chief delight is to sally forth with shears, twine, and a
sheaf of slender green sticks, and search out friends in need of
succor.

To such as these I explain my errand. Even in my little garden, so
“informal” as to be almost slovenly, I know that many cruelties
are done: plants of varying and hostile habit thrown together, all
living, like myself, under unnatural and often abhorred conditions,
trying with all the strength that is in them to escape, to assert
themselves, to be as Nature meant them to be. These I try to restrain
gently and to correct their wayward tendencies. Often I find some
plant that for countless generations has known but one habit of
growth. Suddenly confronted by abnormal conditions and unfamiliar
restraints, it throws tradition to the winds and develops new and
strange habits, changes its appearance, and becomes a wanton thing.
Such as these I try to restore—with many misgivings—to a more
conventional manner of life.

There are those who, like children, are outgrowing their strength,
and so I place the needed support and gently tie them to it,
explaining, as to children, that it is but for a time, that the bonds
are soft, and that as soon as the fibre toughens in their little
minds and bodies it will be removed.

Then the cutting and pruning—there is sheer delight. Is it a spark
of some old savage forbear that has given man his desire to kill, or
is it merely man’s inherent vanity? I stand before the tiny bush,
with flashing steel in hand. The cave man growls; his fingers itch
to cut, to slash, to sever. The coxcomb struts and simpers; he wants
the plant to bow before him or be slain; he wishes it to feel that
only by the grace of this most graceless creature may it live. I know
not which it be, perhaps a bit of both. Cut I do, but always with
restraint, without the cruel pleasure of the brute; and in humility
I strive to check my vanity of being by some mystery lord of this
domain.

And when the heat of summer comes, when cruel thirst is drying leaf
and bud, there comes a twilight hour when hose is brought and tiny
pots are filled and full libations poured. Then later in the darkness
you may walk and smell once more the odor of damp earth, and you can
really hear the little thankful noises of the plants.

These are some of the pleasures that I know, but over all, supreme
and final, is the kinship that you feel for every growing thing. To
have this in the full, again I say: be wary of too intimate a view.
You do not pry into the secrets of your friends; you do not care
to know the hidden things that make them what they are. If you are
wise you let your children have some little chambers in their minds
close-locked against intrusion, where the strange alchemy of life
works out its mysteries.

So with my garden. There are many dark and shady little places where
I do not pry, for here the sacred things are hid that I shall know in
their fruition. If with a vulgar curiosity I poke about, expose them
to the sun, and break the spell, I frustrate all the plans so quietly
afoot. I watch it all and make my guess. I peep a little here and
there, and smile when small reward results. I am quick to act when
danger comes, but slow to bother when life runs in even tenor, and I
try to coax my little garden to confide.

And when it once begins to tell its secrets to me, then no swain who
wins at last his loved one’s confidence is more elate.

The early morning is the best. Not too early. I do not hold with
those who, with the lark, attempt to catch a garden unawares. In
decency, I mean, when all is ready, when the sweet languor of the
night is past, but long before the business of the day has come—that
is the time. When silver dewy webs are on the grass, when flower
cups adroop are full, and leaves are damp. If you look close you’ll
see a thousand secret things, exposed at night, not yet secluded from
the sun. This and the evening hour are those of confidence.

All day the business of the little world goes on: the task of growth,
of flowering and seed, the scented traffic of the toiling bee, the
visits of the birds, the errands of the breeze, make for a busy time
with little chance for secret enterprise. No man-made factory can
compare with this in perfect unison, in calm control and harmony in
work. I wish that every mortal who controls his fellows in their toil
might have a garden to consult in time of strife, for if he did the
strife would never be.

My right to have a garden is often tacitly questioned by those
whose garden technique differs from mine. They may be right; I hold
no brief for my unlettered manner. I am not wise; I do not know a
thousand useful things; I try in vain to store my mind with countless
facts that would enable me to hold my place in learned talk with
experts at the game. But it is vain; I fail, as I have always failed,
to know the niceties of any craft. I read and marvel that a mortal
mind can compass all I find in garden books. I love to read them, for
I feel a little sense of fellowship with those whose lore I envy, and
I know they add new members to a goodly fellowship; but to claim I
understand it all is vanity. The names alone! The strange and awful
appellations which they give my homely friends! With what accustomed
grace they handle them! I marvel at their erudition, and despair.

My own nomenclature is strange and weird. It serves my purpose, for
I never try to talk of plants except between ourselves, and kindly
members of my family condone my strange stupidity. Colors aid, and so
does height of growth. What more convenient method could you ask? The
tall white thing, the low one also white, the tall pink thing, its
lower mate beyond—what could be better? And when we barter for new
seeds or plants I leave all that to those who know the names which
nurserymen and seedsmen use to dignify their wares. Then, too, the
habit of the things assists: the happy and the sulky ones, the proud,
the modest, timid, or abashed. How plainly every one will give you
clue to name it by. Of course, a few good names remain all twisted up
with childhood’s memories of other gardens, other kindly folk, who
taught them to us when we first became aware that gardens are, alone,
the places on this earth most worth the space they occupy.

A garden must have privacy—a wall, a hedge, something to keep the
world away, for here the choicest hours will be spent. It must have
shade, for here will come repose for mind and body more serene than
can be found elsewhere. It should be small or have a part reserved
for fellowship with growing things. There must be seats, not horrid
wooden things upon which no one in his normal mind would sit. For
pure effect against a wall of green they satisfy, but as a place to
rest, a mockery and sham. Give me low seats with ample room for
elbows and for legs, so low your hand may touch the grass, that
matches may be thrust into the ground and not thrown heedlessly
about. These are the only trappings that you need, save pool or basin
for the birds to bathe.

Of course, man starts no enterprise, no undertaking for his
betterment, without attack from myriads of foes. Just why this should
be so, I do not know. Perhaps his ignorance is cause; perhaps he
counts as foes a thousand things that help him though he know it
not. But certainly it seems ordained that garden joys should pay the
highest toll in watchfulness and toil. Why cannot things be beautiful
without a battle for the right to live? Perhaps it is that pleasures
lightly won are lightly held. If this be so, then any garden which
has won its way should give its owner deepest gratitude.

For every year new pestilence arrives, new swarms of insects bringing
blight and death must be combated. Why should this be? Has not man
suffered now enough to recompense that incident of long ago in the
first garden that the new world knew? Why may we not contrive to make
a place secure from harm, safe from some flying menace to all growth?
Is it all wrong that we should thus attempt to fashion something
sweet and pure and good? Or do we fly into the face of laws unknown
to us, which, after all, are wise, if we but knew?

I do not know; but while the breath of life is in me, while eye can
see and hand can serve my will, I’ll fight these creatures with
relentless fury, that I may have a tiny spot, one little haven, one
small safe retreat where beauty, peace, and quiet may be found.

My enmity does not extend beyond the insect brood. I feel quite
differently about the impertinences of my little fur-bearing
marauders. There wits are matched and cunning is displayed. The
sluggish woodchuck is a friend of mine, and rabbits have a quaint
bucolic flavor. A flash of cottontail amid the pea-brush is a pretty
sight. Well may I feel a tolerance for rabbits, for they comprise
one of the busiest departments of our establishment. These gentle,
mild-eyed creatures make ideal pets for children. Their care teaches
lessons of gentleness and foresight. Their wants are few, and great
the joy they give. Our own started with a single pair, but, as time
went on, we found ourselves embarrassed by a constantly increasing
company. The great problem at first was security, but soon we
fashioned an abode proof from attack by day or night, and so they
lived content. At first our colony could be kept down to reasonable
proportions by gifts to unsuspecting friends, but soon that outlet
failed, and now we are in a fair way to be overwhelmed. Once in a
while, by some unforeseen event a wholesale jail-delivery occurs, and
countless rabbits swarm the place. I prayerfully hope that many may
seek asylum in adjacent woods and not return, but by far the greater
part come back, not having found the wild places to their taste.

It is during these periods that my garden suffers and my always
doubtful popularity with my neighbors sinks to its lowest ebb. So
when a flash of white, a pair of ears dart through my garden I
content myself with shouts and harmless missiles badly thrown, for
how can I tell that this tiny intruder is not some vagrant member of
my own increasing flock?

There is one friend I have who seems to be part of my garden. He is
a fellow worker too, a creature of rare tact, who calls but seldom.
When in the twilight I catch sight of his squat black figure on the
garden path I know my ally is afield. He seems a lonely soul, but
quite content.

I wonder what the far-off recollections are that come to me when I
behold a toad: faint pixy notions, sprites, hobgoblins and their
ilk, and jewels too, a medley from the past. Why this small spot of
black on business bent should send me off to fairyland, I do not
know. But when the toad is near I always feel that fairy creatures
are about me too. So, if I’m not observed, I fall into a habit
that besets and hold strange converse with him. And I hear of
grottos far and damp, where jewels are in heaps my shoulder high. A
princess lies in durance vile guarded by shapeless oafs. He tells of
mountain fastnesses where caldrons simmer and old witches croon, of
tiny chargers with small knights a-mount, of glittering plumes, of
rapiers and shields, of gallant deeds, of breathless chase, of song,
of dance, of strange small lights that flicker on the moor. It is
my fancy that he knows of these. And this is what a garden does to
me; this small soft creature, only out for food, becomes a fabled
creature of romance, and surely if in days like these a toad can
strike the shackles from your mind and let you be a child in every
thought, a toad is well worth while.

He hops away and leaves me desolate. A tinkle sounds within the
little house. I answer it. “Yes, yes. I know that matter of the
school. O, Lord! I never go to meetings. But my vote? Oh, yes, I’ll
come, but make it brief.”

As I ring off I’m asked, “Whom were you talking with just now out in
the garden?”

“A friend,” I say, “who called to bring me news.”

“I hope it was not some stray dog. The garden suffers from too many
friends.”

I know that she is right. I must be stricter with these trespassers,
all save the toad who toils for me.

But the fact is, I cannot find it in my heart to dispute possession
of this fair spot with any fellow creature, especially with those
little wild folk whose right is vastly better than my own. No paltry
written deed, doubtless defective in essential details, vouches for
their occupancy, but rather long inheritance and straight descent
from the first owners. A soft and inefficient point of view, I
know. It wins scant approval from my friend who styles himself a
hard-headed business man. He’s doubtless right, for I recall how once
I battled in the marts of trade and how futile were my efforts to be
like him, how weak and wavering were my policies, until I saw I was
too soft and pliant to contest with him, and with what grace I could
I then withdrew.

Since then, with what I have I live content. A dog, a horse, a cow,
a pig or two, some fowl, and rabbits for full measure; with these I
need not traffic or exchange; no trading this for that, no buying
cheap and selling dear, no asking more than what I think is right. An
empty life, you cry. Mayhap for you, but not for me. It is a life so
full that half cannot be done.

And then, beside all these, a tiny house, well filled with kindred
souls. Of these no words can tell, and it is well, for there are
things of which no man may speak.

But in the garden that enshrines the house one may, with proper
reverence, rejoice. For here the very essence of it all distills;
here is the sign, the token of it all.

The sweet outdoors, the lure of husbandry; restrained and gentle
though it be; the mystery of growth and fruitfulness; a beauty
changing every hour, each day; the hours of tranquil joy and easy
talk; the twilight with its hint of old romance; the nights, serene
and fragrant, each with its mood to fill my brimming cup!

And so I sum my blessings up, and as I move about my small domain
and visit each familiar spot and see once more the flowers and the
beasts, in sheer content, with humble mind and thankful heart, I call
them blessed, one and all.

[Illustration: Frog and rabbit]




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