The Diary of a Goose Girl by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin (phonics reader TXT) 📖

of favour with the entire family.  He is a noble and amiable bird, by far the best all-round character in the flock, for dignity of mien and large-minded common-sense.  What is the treatment vouchsafed to this blameless husband and father?  One that puts anybody out of sorts with virtue and its scant rewards.  To begin with, the others will not allow him to go into the pond.  There is an organised cabal against it, and he sits solitary on the bank, calm and resigned, but, naturally, a trifle hurt.  His favourite retreat is a tiny sort of island on the edge of the pool under the alders, where with his bent head, and red-rimmed philosophic eyes he regards his own breast and dreams of happier days.  When the others walk into the country twenty-three of them keep together, and Burd Alane (as I have named him from the old ballad) walks by himself.  The lack of harmony is so evident here, and the slight so intentional and direct, that it almost moves me to tears.  The others walk soberly, always in couples, but even Burd Alane’s rightful spouse is on the side of the majority, and avoids her consort.

Out of favour with the entire family

What is the nature of his offence?  There can be no connubial jealousies, I judge, as geese are strictly monogamous, and having chosen a partner of their joys and sorrows they cleave to each other until death or some other inexorable circumstance does them part.  If they are ever mistaken in their choice, and think they might have done better, the world is none the wiser.  Burd Alane looks in good condition, but Phœbe thinks he is not quite himself, and that some day when he is in greater strength he will turn on his foes and rend them, regaining thus his lost prestige, for formerly he was king of the flock.

* * * * *

Phœbe has not a vestige of sentiment.  She just asked me if I would have a duckling or a gosling for dinner; that there were two quite ready—the brown and yellow duckling, that is the last to leave the water at night, and the white gosling that never knows his own ’ouse.  Which would I ’ave, and would I ’ave it with sage and onion?

Now, had I found a duckling on the table at dinner I should have eaten it without thinking at all, or with the thought that it had come from Barbury Green.  But eat a duckling that I have stoned out of the pond, pursued up the bank, chased behind the wire netting, caught, screaming, in a corner, and carried struggling to his bed?  Feed upon an idiot gosling that I have found in nine different coops on nine successive nights—in with the newly-hatched chicks, the half-grown pullets, the setting hen, the “invaleed goose,” the drake with the gapes, the old ducks in the pen?—Eat a gosling that I have caught and put in with his brothers and sisters (whom he never recognises) so frequently and regularly that I am familiar with every joint in his body?

In the first place, with my own small bump of locality and lack of geography, I would never willingly consume a creature who might, by some strange process of assimilation, make me worse in this respect; in the second place, I should have to be ravenous indeed to sit down deliberately and make a meal of an intimate friend, no matter if I had not a high opinion of his intelligence.  I should as soon think of eating the Square Baby, stuffed with sage and onion and garnished with green apple-sauce, as the yellow duckling or the idiot gosling.

Mrs. Heaven has just called me into her sitting-room, ostensibly to ask me to order breakfast, but really for the pleasure of conversation.  Why she should inquire whether I would relish some gammon of bacon with eggs, when she knows that there has not been, is not now, and never will be, anything but gammon of bacon with eggs, is more than I can explain.

“Would you like to see my flowers, miss?” she asks, folding her plump hands over her white apron.  “They are looking beautiful this morning.  I am so fond of potted plants, of plants in pots.  Look at these geraniums!  Now, I consider that pink one a perfect bloom; yes, a perfect bloom.  This is a fine red one, is it not, miss?  Especially fine, don’t you think?  The trouble with the red variety is that they’re apt to get “bobby” and have to be washed regularly; quite bobby they do get indeed, I assure you.  That white one has just gone out of blossom, and it was really wonderful.  You could ’ardly have told it from a paper flower, miss, not from a white paper flower.  My plants are my children nowadays, since Albert Edward is my only care.  I have been the mother of eleven children, miss, all of them living, so far as I know; I know nothing to the contrary.  I ’ope you are not wearying of this solitary place, miss?  It will grow upon you, I am sure, as it did upon Mrs. Pollock, with all her peculiar fancies, and as it ’as grown upon us.—We formerly had a butcher’s shop in Buffington, and it was naturally a great responsibility.  Mr. Heaven’s nerves are not strong, and at last he wanted a life of more quietude, more quietude was what he craved.  The life of a retail butcher is a most exciting and wearying one.  Nobody satisfied with their meat; as if it mattered in a world of change!  Everybody complaining of too much bone or too little fat; nobody wishing tough chops or cutlets, but always seeking after fine joints, when it’s against reason and nature that all joints should be juicy and all cutlets tender; always complaining if livers are not sent with every fowl, always asking you to remember the trimmin’s, always wanting their beef well ’ung, and then if you ’ang it a minute too long, it’s left on your ’ands!  I often used to say to Mr. Heaven, yes many’s the time I’ve said it, that if people would think more of the great ’ereafter and less about their own little stomachs, it would be a deal better for them, yes, a deal better, and make it much more comfortable for the butchers!”

The life . . . is a most exciting and wearying one

* * * * *

Burd Alane has had a good quarter of an hour to-day.

His spouse took a brief promenade with him

His spouse took a brief promenade with him.  To be sure, it was during an absence of the flock on the other side of the hedge so that the moral effect of her spasm of wifely loyalty was quite lost upon them.  I strongly suspect that she would not have granted anything but a secret interview.  What a petty, weak, ignoble character!  I really don’t like to think so badly of any fellow-creature as I am forced to think of that politic, time-serving, pusillanimous goose.  I believe she laid the egg that produced the idiot gosling!

CHAPTER IX

Here follows the true story of Sir Muscovy Drake, the Lady Blanche, and Miss Malardina Crippletoes.

Phœbe’s flock consisted at first mostly of Brown Mallards, but a friend gave her a sitting of eggs warranted to produce a most beautiful variety of white ducks.  They were hatched in due time, but proved hard to raise, till at length there was only one survivor, of such uncommon grace and beauty that we called her the Lady Blanche.  Presently a neighbour sold Phœbe his favourite Muscovy drake, and these two splendid creatures by “natural selection” disdained to notice the rest of the flock, but forming a close friendship, wandered in the pleasant paths of duckdom together, swimming and eating quite apart from the others.

In the brown flock there was one unfortunate, misshapen from the egg, quite lame, and with no smoothness of plumage; but on that very account, apparently, or because she was too weak to resist them, the others treated her cruelly, biting her and pushing her away from the food.

One day it happened that the two ducks—Sir Muscovy and Lady Blanche—had come up from the water before the others, and having taken their repast were sitting together under the shade of a flowering currant-bush, when they chanced to see poor Miss Crippletoes very badly used and crowded away from the dish.  Sir Muscovy rose to his feet; a few rapid words seemed to pass between him and his mate, and then he fell upon the other drake and the heartless minions who had persecuted the helpless one, drove them far away out of sight, and, returning, went to the corner where the victim was cowering, her face to the wall.  He seemed to whisper to her, or in some way to convey to her a sense of protection; for after a few moments she tremblingly went with him to the dish, and hurriedly ate her dinner while he stood by, repulsing the advances of the few brown ducks who remained near and seemed inclined to attack her.

When she had eaten enough Lady Blanche joined them, and they went down the hill together to their favourite swimming-place.  After that Miss Crippletoes always followed a little behind her protectors, and thus shielded and fed she grew stronger and well-feathered, though she was always smaller than she should have been and had a lowly manner, keeping a few steps in the rear of her superiors and sitting at some distance from their noon resting-place.

Phœbe noticed after a while that Lady Blanche was seldom to be seen, and Sir Muscovy and Miss Crippletoes often came to their meals without her.  The would-be mother refused to inhabit the house Phœbe had given her, and for a long time the place she had chosen for her sitting could not be found.  At length the Square Baby discovered her in a most ideal spot.  A large boulder had dropped years ago into the brook that fills our duck-pond; dropped and split in halves with the two smooth walls leaning away from each other.  A grassy bank towered behind, and on either side of the opening, tall bushes made a miniature forest where the romantic mother could brood her treasures while her two guardians enjoyed the water close by her retreat.

All this happened before my coming to Thornycroft Farm, but it was I who named the hero and heroines of the romance when Phœbe had told me all the particulars.  Yesterday morning I was sitting by my open window.  It was warm, sunny, and still, but in the country sounds travel far, and I could hear fowl conversation in various parts of the poultry-yard as well as in all the outlying bits of territory occupied by our feathered friends.  Hens have only three words and a scream in their language, but ducks, having more thoughts to express, converse quite fluently, so fluently, in fact, that it reminds me of dinner at the Hydropathic Hotel.  I fancy I have learned to distinguish seven separate sounds, each varied by degrees of intensity, and with upward or downward inflections like the Chinese tongue.

In the distance, then, I heard the faint voice of a duck calling as if breathless and excited.  While I wondered what was happening, I saw Miss Crippletoes struggling up the steep bank above the duck-pond.  It was the quickest way from the water to the house, but difficult for the little lame webbed feet.  When she reached the level grass sward she sank down a moment, exhausted; but when she could speak again she cried out, a sharp staccato call, and ran forward.

Instantly she was answered from a distant knoll, where for some reason Sir Muscovy loved to retire for meditation.  The cries grew lower and softer as the birds approached