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

each other, and they met at the corner just under my window.  Instantly they put their two bills together and the loud cries changed to confiding murmurs.  Evidently some hurried questions and answers passed between them, and then Sir Muscovy waddled rapidly by the quickest path, Miss Crippletoes following him at a slower pace, and both passed out of sight, using their wings to help their feet down the steep declivity.  The next morning, when I wakened early, my first thought was to look out, and there on the sunny greensward where they were accustomed to be fed, Sir Muscovy, Lady Blanche, and their humble maid, Malardina Crippletoes, were scattering their own breakfast before the bills of twelve beautiful golden balls of ducklings.  The little creatures could never have climbed the bank, but must have started from their nest at dawn, coming round by the brook to the level at the foot of the garden, and so by slow degrees up to the house.

Judging from what I heard and knew of their habits, I am sure the excitement of the previous morning was occasioned by the hatching of the eggs, and that Lady Blanche had hastily sent her friend to call Sir Muscovy, the family remaining together until they could bring the babies with them and display their beauty to Phœbe and me.

CHAPTER X

July 14th.

We are not wholly without the pleasures of the town in Barbury Green.  Once or twice in a summer, late on a Saturday afternoon, a procession of red and yellow vans drives into a field near the centre of the village.  By the time the vans are unpacked all the children in the community are surrounding the gate of entrance.  There is rifle-shooting, there is fortune-telling, there are games of pitch and toss, and swings, and French bagatelle; and, to crown all, a wonderful orchestrion that goes by steam.  The water is boiled for the public’s tea, and at the same time thrilling strains of melody are flung into the air.  There is at present only one tune in the orchestrion’s repertory, but it is a very good tune; though after hearing it three hundred and seven times in a single afternoon, it pursues one, sleeping and waking, for the next week.  Phœbe and I took the Square Baby and went in to this diversified entertainment.  There was a small crowd of children at the entrance, but as none of them seemed to be provided with pennies, and I felt in a fairy godmother mood, I offered them the freedom of the place at my expense.

I never purchased more radiant good-will for less money, but the combined effect of the well-boiled tea and the boiling orchestrion produced many village nightmares, so the mothers told me at chapel next morning.

* * * * *

I have many friends in Barbury Green, and often have a pleasant chat with the draper, and the watchmaker, and the chemist.

The freedom of the place at my expense

The last house on the principal street is rather an ugly one, with especially nice window curtains.  As I was taking my daily walk to the post-office (an entirely unfruitful expedition thus far, as nobody has taken the pains to write to me) I saw a nursemaid coming out of the gate, wheeling a baby in a perambulator.  She was going placidly away from the Green when, far in the distance, she espied a man walking rapidly toward us, a heavy Gladstone bag in one hand.  She gazed fixedly for a moment, her eyes brightening and her cheeks flushing with pleasure,—whoever it was, it was an unexpected arrival;—then she retraced her steps and, running up the garden-path, opened the front door and held an excited colloquy with somebody; a slender somebody in a nice print gown and neatly-dressed hair, who came to the gate and peeped beyond the hedge several times, drawing back between peeps with smiles and heightened colour.  She did not run down the road, even when she had satisfied herself of the identity of the traveller; perhaps that would not have been good form in an English village, for there were houses on the opposite side of the way.  She waited until he opened the gate, the nursemaid took the bag and looked discreetly into the hedge, then the mistress slipped her hand through the traveller’s arm and walked up the path as if she had nothing else in the world to wish for.  The nurse had a part in the joy, for she lifted the baby out of the perambulator and showed proudly how much he had grown.

It was a dear little scene, and I, a passer-by, had shared in it and felt better for it.  I think their content was no less because part of it had enriched my life, for happiness, like mercy, is twice blessed; it blesses those who are most intimately associated in it, and it blesses all those who see it, hear it, feel it, touch it, or breathe the same atmosphere.  A laughing, crowing baby in a house, one cheerful woman singing about her work, a boy whistling at the plough, a romance just suspected, with its miracle of two hearts melting into one—the wind’s always in the west when you have any of these wonder-workers in your neighbourhood.

I have talks too, sometimes, with the old parson, who lives in a quaint house with “Parva Domus Magna Quies” cut into the stone over the doorway.  He is not a preaching parson, but a retired one, almost the nicest kind, I often think.

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

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

Puffing cosily at his pipe

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

That is the way they speak of love in Barbury Green, and oh! how much sweeter and more wholesome it is than the language of the town!  Who would not be a Goose Girl, “to win the secret of the weed’s plain heart”?  It seems to me that in society we are always gazing at magic-lantern shows, but here we rest our tired eyes with looking at the stars.

CHAPTER XI

A Hen Conference

July 16th.

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

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

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

Arguing questions of diet

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

The afternoon session was most exciting

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

Just as we were passing out the door we paused to hear the report of a special committee whose chairman read the following resolutions:—

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

Resolved,—That the next edition of our catalogue contain an illustrated memorial page in his honour and

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

Not asked to the Conference

The handsome young farmer followed us out to our trap, invited us to attend the next meeting of the R. C. B. O. Club, of which he was the secretary, and asked if I were intending to “show.”  I introduced Phœbe as the senior partner, and she concealed the fact that