this
delicious
air is ours!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v20 - Phi to Qui
"
"And that bird with an acorn in its beak? "
"That's a jay. He's collecting his provisions for the winter;
but as he's silly, he'll forget where he puts them, and will starve
with the rest. "
"Have some creatures more sense than others? »
"Yes: it's just like us, there are rascals and fools. Any one
who notices their ways knows they understand. "
"But they can't talk like us? »
"You may be sure that they make each other understand in
their own way. "
"And perhaps they're not so bad as us, for they don't want
gendarmes. "
This last word reminded the child of the poacher's capture:
'Lanie's father had so often talked about it before him. He
longed to question his friend, hesitated at last said:-
"Tell me, Jean, is it true? "
―
"What? "
"Is it true that you had a sweetheart at Vibraye? »
The climber turned as red as a cherry.
<< Stuff and nonsense! I've never set foot in the place. "
"I believe you- but I've heard it said - But tell me, what's
the meaning of a sweetheart ? »
"I've never had one; but from what they say, it's a sort
of lass that one dances with at the assemblies, and takes home
through the lanes, and kisses in the dusk. "
"Did you ever meet any in the forest? "
"No, never, because I get out of their way. Girls make too
much noise with their chatter, and they make me feel quite silly
when they fix their eyes on me. And then it's a waste of time,
for what's the good of kissing the hussies? »
"But you had other company in the forest, Renaud. I'm told
you went there with -»
"Little goose! with whom? "
"With a gun. ”
Jean hung his head without answering.
"Is it true? Oh, how I should have liked to see it. You
haven't got it any longer? "
The poacher stammered out:-
"Don't ever talk about that.
___
I have no gun. ”
## p. 11941 (#575) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11941
"What a pity. I should have so liked to hear you make it
say 'Bang! We would have gone out together, and you would
have shot some nice little creatures for me. "
Jean Renaud trembled all over. He had left off poaching,
in order to devote himself to the child. He feared danger now
that he had become a father, and the spiders spun their webs
undisturbed over the plank which concealed his gun. He had
given up thinking about it. The child's caresses had lulled the
passion to sleep, and here was the boy awakening it! That gun
is at home-actually under his hands. Oh, if he might take
the good weapon out of its hiding-place, and aim at a bound-
ing fawn, and smell powder once more! It all comes back to his
memory; the fierce passion lights up again;-but no, the orphan
has need of him; he must not be imprisoned now. He turns
pale with the effort, but he masters himself.
"Let's be off," he says sadly.
"Those are all lies,- the gun
was broken long ago. "
The Little Parisian asked every Sunday to be taken farther
into the forest; but he was too weak for so much fatigue.
Renaud made for him a sort of wheelbarrow with long arms,
like those the milkmaids use to carry their milk. He lined it
thickly with grass, and insisted on his dear Jacques sitting in it
when they went a long way. He wheeled it all along the paths,
carefully avoiding the stones and ruts so as not to shake the
child.
"You will see quite as well," he said, "and you won't get
tired. "
Sometimes the little fellow, overcome by so much fresh air,
would fall asleep in the midst of the woods. Renaud, his per-
ception sharpened by love, would stop on some pretext or other;
for it never does to tell a child he is sleepy. It was Jean, the
indefatigable Jean, who complained of fatigue. He stretched
himself, and said he wanted to go home.
"Oh, I'm not a bit tired," said Jacques, pouting. And his
little eyes closed in spite of his efforts. Jean would rest the
curly head softly on his shoulder, lifting the little sleeper care-
fully, carry him to the barrow, and wheel him slowly home.
It was at this time that the forester learned to sew in order
to mend the orphan's clothes. As soon as the little blouse got
torn in the brushwood, this man, whose tenderness made a
woman of him, might be seen sitting outside his door, gravely
1
I
## p. 11942 (#576) ##########################################
11942
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
and patiently using his needle with his awkward fingers. The
white thread made strange figures on the mended hole.
He was
so busily engaged that he hardly gave himself time to breathe,
he tried so hard to make his darn strong and neat. Often on
a Sunday morning he was heard washing a child's shirt in the
river, beating it with a wooden beetle.
The two companions lived in this way for about ten months.
September had already reddened the first leaves of the maple.
They met Mélanie's father at the stone quarry. His manner was
never very pleasant; this time he only answered curtly:-
"Good-day. "
"Are you going for a walk? "
"Nay, I'm looking for my new spade that I've lost. "
"Shall we lend a hand? "
"I don't care much for your company. "
"And the child, won't you speak to him? "
"What should I say? I don't admire the way you're bringing
him up. "
"Really, do you want him to go into the saw-pit at his age? '
"No-nonsense. I should like him to go to church. He's
But as your grand-
been trusted to you, and you misuse him.
father said before me, you're more like a wolf than a man.
Renaud had never thought on the subject. The voices of the
forest, and another voice within himself, had whispered to him
that there was something greater than the woods and the wood-
cutters-up there where the stars were shining. But his faith,
too abstract not to be vague, was not in any way connected with
the Christian ceremonies, which he did not understand. His aspi-
rations were religious, but ignorantly unbelieving when he tried
to reason.
« as
"I think I should be bored in heaven," he used to say,
they have nothing to do but sit still and sing psalms. I'd rather
roam about in the woods. "
"'Lanie would have taken the boy to church," resumed the
old man, "and when he was old enough, to confirmation. You
are no better than an arquelier. "
An arquelier means a mischievous vagabond. It is evidently
a contemptuous diminutive of the word arquebusier, and has
remained in use among our country-folk ever since the Middle
Ages, when the peasantry suffered from the depredations of the
hired soldiery.
## p. 11943 (#577) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11943
"I don't hold much to such devout folks," retorted Renaud.
"Isn't every one free to do what he thinks right? But wherever
Mélanie would have taken the boy I'll take him. "
From that day he took the Little Parisian every Sunday to
mass. The two were to be seen standing, silent and motionless,
at the entrance near the font. When the priest went up into
the pulpit to preach, Jean coughed and spit in imitation of other
people; the rest of the time he was perfectly quiet. When the
blessed bread was distributed, he put his piece carefully into his
cap, to give it to the little one when they left the church.
Jacques generally stood on tiptoe, looking into the choir.
Jean remarked this, and looked in the same direction; but saw
nothing except the schoolboys ranged in parallel lines, with the
schoolmaster at their head. When the mass was over, the lit-
tle band went out in single file, with a formidable clattering of
sabots. Some pushed those in front or overturned a chair by
mistake, then hid their mouths with their sleeves to laugh with-
out noise.
"What were you looking at just now, Jacques? You were
quite absorbed. "
"The schoolboys and the gentleman in spectacles. "
"There's nothing curious in them. In old times I too used
to go to school. I found it very tiresome. "
"I shouldn't find it tiresome. Can you read, Jean? "
"Not a word. What's the good? "
"To know about things. They say that books explain all sorts
of nice things. "
The climber shrugged his shoulders. But every time they
met the schoolboys, Jacques looked at them with envy and talked
of books with regret.
"You want, then, to be a scholar? "
"Yes, to be sure, dear Jean. I should be ever so glad to
learn. "
Renaud considered that the expense would be small, and that
the child would be better at school in bad weather than all alone
in the woods.
"Well, then, we'll put you to school. "
He took the boy, eager and joyful, to the same master who
had been the bugbear of his childhood.
"No offense, Jean Renaud," said the latter-"but I hope the
little fellow will not be as slow as you were. "
## p. 11944 (#578) ##########################################
I 1944
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
"Well now, master, boys are not all alike. This boy is clever.
I never was. No offense-but I never was so bored in my life
as when I was with you. "
"All right: and is this little man your brother? »
Renaud replied, shyly and sadly:-
"Jacques was Mélanie's nursling. "
The good man asked no more questions; and the Little Paris-
ian joined the class on the next day.
Renaud watched tenderly over the little scholar.
He bought
no winter waistcoat for himself, in order that Jacques might have
a new suit of clothes. He washed his hands and face carefully
every morning. The little wallet was filled with provisions to
last all day. Jean made an enormous round to take the child
half-way to school before going to his work. When he left him
the little chap walked very steadily for fear of tearing his new
blouse, and once in school astonished the master by his intelli-
gence. And in the evening what a pleasure it was to follow the
shady paths, and join his big brother in the midst of the forest,
and then both go home by a short cut! When there, one would
light the fire and the other set on the soup; then they pricked
two lovely apples, and watched them frothing in the cinders.
Next year, when the Little Parisian had learned to read, Jean .
became uneasy.
"This boy's too clever for me. I fancy he'll get tired of my
company. "
And he tried to think of something, besides providing for
physical wants, to amuse his little companion. His unselfishness
led him even to leave the forest, to frequent the fêtes in neigh-
boring towns. He lifted the boy on to the merry-go-rounds,
when the wooden horses turned slowly to the sound of a hand-
organ; made him take shares in lotteries for macaroons and
wine-glasses. They witnessed the rough sports of the young
farmers, who drank all the more when they were not thirsty, and
whose wit consisted in pinching the waists of the girls and mak-
ing them scream without being found out. Vehicles filled with
whole families drove in, raising a terrible dust. The violin
squeaked in the place marked out by ropes for dancing. The
dentist "from Paris," established with great pomp on his un-
horsed carriage, a huge case of instruments in the front, held
firmly on the seat a peasant adorned with a swelled face, and
informed the public that he was going to extract the tooth with
## p. 11945 (#579) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11945
the same instrument that he used for crowned heads. At a little
distance long tables were spread under sheds, charged with cider
and strong-smelling drinks. The landlord's assistant had to make
way with his elbows to the billiard table, to separate two sabot-
makers who were settling a doubtful game with a fight.
"Do you enjoy the fun, my little Jacques? " said Renaud,
trying to look delighted.
"On the contrary, I am bored to death. My head aches, and
I feel sick. I like the forest ever so much better. "
But there were also fêtes in the forest. There they felt at
home, and Renaud took his little friend to all of them.
First, there was gathering the lilies-of-the-valley about Ascen-
sion Day. The fields are celebrated for their profusion from
Grez to St. Agert. Gentle and simple alike love these sweet
flowers, whose milky whiteness gleams in the shade, against the
deep green of their pointed leaves. All the idle population of
the neighboring towns crowds the forest in the charming sea-
son when the lilies burst into flower. The woods change their
aspect. Young men from town arrive with their great-coats
under their arms; young ladies sing in high soprano voices the
romances of Louisa Puget; some young men are exchanging
words of love with their sweethearts, others pursuing the objects
of their fancy. In the evening, nosegays pass from hand to
hand. The mothers follow, large and imposing, their caps ad-
orned with artificial flowers, the strings floating in the breeze.
Greasy papers cover the ground in open spaces. One hears the
bottles knock against each other in the baskets carried by means
of a walking-stick passed through the handles by some happy
couple.
On the Fête of St. Louis (August 15th) the nutting begins.
The strangers come again, and once more fill the forest with
noisy merriment. The nuts in their hairy envelopes cover the
branches. The draper's wife has stuffed her pockets with them;
the policeman has filled his basket. The priest's nephew, a cor-
poral on leave, strikes them down with a quarter-staff; the col-
lector's wife uses her yellow parasol to bend down the branches.
Some of the young men get excited, and challenge each other
to a gymnastic bout. Elsewhere they are dancing in a ring. No
one but the barber, who was formerly a waiter in Courbevoie,
refuses to take part, and replies scornfully, "I only care for reg-
ular dances. "
## p. 11946 (#580) ##########################################
11946
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
The Little Parisian draws his friend on one side.
"I don't care for this either: let's be off, brother. "
"My darling, you love the real forest, then, as much as I
do? "
"Yes, I do love it. But you don't know how I wish that
what the people said was true that dear Jean had a gun, and
we could hunt the game together. "
Renaud the Poacher trembled.
What! again this longing! How often has he cherished it
himself during the two years they have lived together!
"What are you talking about? " he broke out: "are you mad?
My gun? I swear it's broken; but why-why are you always
thinking of sport? "
The Little Parisian looks dreamily up at the green vault over
his head; he inhales the scent of the woods; he has all sorts of
wild thoughts. The mysterious thicket attracts him; he begins to
understand why he loves the Chemins-Verts. He replies:-
"I don't know if I am thinking of sport, but I long to get
deeper and deeper into the forest, to watch all that goes on, to
catch the birds on the wing. "
The dead leaves lay in heaps on the path, the wind had
blown them into ridges like the waves of the sea. He stepped
over them proudly, and threw back his head, thrilling with youth-
ful excitement, and exclaimed: -
"The forest is ours!
this delicious air is ours! "
Renaud saw himself in this enthusiastic child.
## p. 11947 (#581) ##########################################
11947
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
(1863-)
HE fiction of the English writer who began by signing his lit-
erary work with the initial "Q. ," is among the most virile
and pleasing written by the younger British school. A. T.
Quiller-Couch-the full name of this author-makes stories that are
full of vigor and invention; romantic in treatment, yet realistic in
their close observation, and in the understanding sympathy with which
he studies the life of humble folk and the types and scenes of his
native country. He is a Cornishman, and has given his main atten-
tion to the people of that locality, spending
most of his time within the sound of the
Cornish seas. His novels and short tales in
spirit and method affiliate him with Barrie,
Kipling, and Stevenson, and he is little in-
ferior to them in strength and originality.
Although his literary production includes
criticism and poetry, his reputation is based
substantially on his stories. 'Dead Man's
Rock' in 1887 won him much favor, and
other books followed in due course: The
Astonishing History of Troy Town, The
Splendid Spur,' and 'The Blue Pavilions,'
historical novels; and the collections of A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
short stories entitled 'Naughts and Crosses,'
'I Saw Three Ships; and other Winter's Tales,' 'The Delectable
Duchy,' and 'Wandering Heath. ' 'Ia,' a novelette, is a tale of love
in a Cornish fishing village. Mr. Quiller-Couch's strongest novel is
the brilliant 'The Splendid Spur,' recognized by the critics as one of
the most stirring romances by a contemporaneous English novelist.
In 'The Delectable Duchy,' which is finely representative of his
short-story work, are grouped a number of Cornish tales and sketches,
exquisite for truth, pathos, and poetry, rich with feeling for the lights
and shadows in the life of the Welsh poor. The writer thus ranges
from the dramatic to the idyllic, and is successful in both veins. His
fiction as a whole is thoroughly healthy and inspiriting. The unpleas-
ant realism and the decadent pessimism of the day he stands quite
apart from.
Like R. L. Stevenson, he unites the power of making
>
## p. 11948 (#582) ##########################################
11948
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
stories instinct with adventurous interest, with a literary gift and an
insight into character which have gained him the approval of captious
critics, and made him a favorite with those who read a story for the
story's sake.
In his personality and manner of life, Quiller-Couch seems a man
of affairs and of outdoor sports rather than the traditional book-man.
He was born November 21st, 1863. His family has lived in Corn-
wall for generations, and he comes of good stock; father, uncle, and
grandfather being distinguished scientists in the fields of biology and
medicine. He was educated in various Devonshire schools, then went
up to Trinity College, Oxford. As an undergraduate he contributed
clever verse to the college paper, adopting the pseudonym "Q. " He
was and is an athlete, as one might infer from his books,- and in
his day was stroke of the college boat. He took his degree in 1887,
and was appointed classical lecturer at Trinity; but soon turned to
fiction, went to London, and joined the staff of the Speaker - Barrie
being a fellow-worker. This newspaper connection has been retained
ever since, although Mr. Quiller-Couch now lives in a charming
country house at Fowey in Cornwall. The volume 'Adventures in
Criticism' is made up of selected book reviews representing his jour-
nalistic work, which is decidedly fresh and good. The Elizabethan
anthology, The Golden Pomp,' also testifies to his reading and schol-
arship.
The work of A. T. Quiller-Couch is refutation of the charge that
the end-of-the-century in English literature has nothing to offer but
the morbid and unwholesome. He is a strong, manly writer, whose
steadily growing influence is tonic and welcome.
WHEN THE SAP ROSE: A FANTASIA
From The Delectable Duchy. Copyright 1893, by Macmillan & Co.
Α
N OLD yellow van, the "Comet," came jolting along the edge
of the downs and shaking its occupants together like peas
in a bladder. The bride and bridegroom did not mind
this much; but the Registrar of Births, Deaths, and Marriages,
who had bound them in wedlock at the Bible Christian Chapel
two hours before, was discomforted by a pair of tight boots, that
nipped cruelly whenever he stuck out his feet to keep his equi-
librium.
Nevertheless, his mood was genial; for the young people had
taken his suggestion and acquired a copy of their certificate.
## p. 11949 (#583) ##########################################
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
11949
This meant five extra shillings in his pocket. Therefore, when
the van drew up at the cross-roads for him to alight, he wished
them long life and a multitude of children with quite a fatherly
air.
"You can't guess where I'm bound for.
It's to pay my
old mother a visit. Ah, family life's the pretty life-that ever
I should say it! "
They saw no reason why he should be cynical, more than
other men. And the bride, in whose eyes this elderly gentleman
with the tight boots appeared a rosy-winged Cupid, waved her
handkerchief until the vehicle had sidled round the hill, resem-
bling in its progress a very infirm crab in a hurry.
As a fact, the Registrar wore a silk hat, a suit of black West-
of-England broadcloth, a watch-chain made out of his dead wife's
hair, and two large seals that clashed together when he moved
His face was wide and round, with a sanguine complexion, gray
side-whiskers, and a cicatrix across the chin. He had shaved in
a hurry that morning; for the wedding was early, and took place
on the extreme verge of his district. His is a beautiful office
recording day by day the solemnest and most mysterious events
in nature. Yet, standing at the cross-roads, between down and
woodland, under an April sky full of sun and southwest wind,
he threw the ugliest shadow in the landscape.
The road towards the coast dipped-too steeply for tight
boots - down a wooded coombe; and he followed it, treading deli-
cately. The hollow of the V ahead, where the hills overlapped
against the pale blue, was powdered with a faint brown bloom,
soon to be green, an infinity of bursting buds. The larches
stretched their arms upwards, as men waking. The yellow was
out on the gorse, with a heady scent like a pineapple's; and
between the bushes spread the gray film of coming bluebells.
High up, the pines sighed along the ridge, turning paler; and
far down, where the brook ran, a mad duet was going on be-
tween thrush and chaffinch,-"Cheer up, cheer up, Queen! " "Clip,
clip, clip, and kiss me-Sweet! "—one against the other.
Now, the behavior of the Registrar of Births, Deaths, and
Marriages changed as he descended the valley. At first he went
from side to side, because the loose stones were sharp and lay
unevenly; soon he zigzagged for another purpose,-to peer into
the bank for violets, to find a gap between the trees where, by
## p. 11950 (#584) ##########################################
11950
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
bending down with a hand on each knee and his head tilted
back, he could see the primroses stretching in broad sheets to
the very edge of the pine woods. By frequent tilting his collar
broke from its stud and his silk hat settled far back on his neck.
Next he unbuttoned his waistcoat and loosened his braces; but
no, he could not skip,- his boots were too tight He looked at
each tree as he passed. "If I could only see » he muttered.
"I'll swear there used to be one on the right, just here. "
But he could not find it here,- perhaps his memory misgave
him; and presently turned with decision, climbed the low fence
on his left, between him and the hollow of the coombe, and
dropped into the plantation on the other side. Here the ground
was white in patches with anemones; and as his feet crushed
them, descending, the babel of the birds grew louder and louder.
He issued on a small clearing by the edge of the brook,
where the grass was a delicate green, each blade pushing up
straight as a spear-point from the crumbled earth.
Here were
more anemones, between patches of last year's bracken, and on
the further slope a mass of daffodils. He pulled out a pocket-
knife that had sharpened some hundreds of quill pens, and look-
ing to his right, found what he wanted at once.
It was a sycamore, on which the buds were swelling. He cut
a small twig, as big round as his middle finger, and sitting him-
self down on a barked log close by, began to measure and cut it
to a span's length, avoiding all knots. Then, taking the knife by
the blade between finger and thumb, he tapped the bark gently
with the tortoise-shell handle. And as he tapped, his face went
back to boyhood again, in spite of the side-whiskers, and his
mouth was pursed up to a silent tune.
For ten minutes the tapping continued, the birds ceased their
contention, and broke out restlessly at intervals. A rabbit across
the brook paused and listened at the funnel-shaped mouth of his
hole, which caught the sound and redoubled it.
"Confound these boots! " said the Registrar, and pulling them
off, tossed them among the primroses. They were "elastic-sides. "
The tapping ceased. A breath of the landward breeze came
up, combing out the tangle that winter had made in the grass,
caught the brook on the edge of a tiny fall, and puffed it back
six inches in a spray of small diamonds. It quickened the whole
copse. The oak saplings rubbed their old leaves one on another,
## p. 11951 (#585) ##########################################
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
11951
as folks rub their hands, feeling life and warmth; the chestnut
buds groped like an infant's fingers; and the chorus broke out
again, the thrush leading,-"Tiurru, tiurru, chippewee; tio-tee, tio-
tee; queen, queen, que-een ! »
In a moment or two he broke off suddenly, and a honey-bee
shot out of an anemone-bell like a shell from a mortar.
For a
new sound disconcerted them—a sound sharp and piercing. The
Registrar had finished his whistle and was blowing like mad,
moving his fingers up and down. Having proved his instrument,
he dived a hand into his tail-pocket and drew out a roll, tied
around with ribbon. It was the folded leather-bound volume in
which he kept his blank certificates. And spreading it on his
knees, he took his whistle again and blew, reading his music from
the blank pages, and piping a strain he had never dreamed of.
For he whistled of Births and Marriages.
O happy Registrar! O happy, happy Registrar! You will
never get into those elastic-sides again. Your feet swell as they
tap the swelling earth, and at each tap the flowers push, the sap
climbs, the speck of life moves in the hedge-sparrow's egg; while
far away on the downs, with each tap the yellow van takes bride
and groom a foot nearer felicity. It is hard work in worsted
socks; for you smite with the vehemence of Pan, and Pan had a
hoof of horn.
The Registrar's mother lived in the fishing-village, two miles
down the coombe. Her cottage leant back against the cliff so
closely that the boys, as they followed the path above, could toss
tabs of turf down her chimney: and this was her chief annoy-
ance.
Now it was close on the dinner-hour, and she stood in her
kitchen beside a pot of stew that simmered over the wreck-wood
fire.
Suddenly a great lump of earth and grass came bouncing
down the chimney, striking from side to side, and soused into
pot, scattering the hot stew over the hearth-stone and splash-
ing her from head to foot.
Quick as thought, she caught up a besom and rushed out
around the corner of the cottage.
"You stinking young adders! " she began.
A big man stood on the slope above her.
«< Mother, cuff my head, that's a dear. I couldn' help doin' it. "
## p. 11952 (#586) ##########################################
11952
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
It was the elderly Registrar. His hat, collar, tie, and waist-
coat were awry; his boots were slung on the walking-stick over
his shoulder; stuck in his mouth and lit was a twist of root-fibre,
such as country boys use for lack of cigars, and he himself had
used forty years before.
The old woman turned to an ash color, leant on her besom,
and gasped.
"William Henry! "
"I'm not drunk, mother: been a Band of Hope these dozen
years. "
He stepped down the slope to her and bent his head
low. "Box my ears, mother, quick! You used to have a wonder-
ful gift o' cuffin'. "
"William Henry, I'm bound to do it or die. "
"Then be quick about it. "
Half laughing, half sobbing, she caught him a feeble cuff,
and next instant held him close to her old breast. The Registrar
disengaged himself after a minute, brushed his eyes, straightened
his hat, picked up the besom, and offered her his arm. They
passed into the cottage together.
THE PAUPERS
From The Delectable Duchy. ' Copyright 1893, by Macmillan & Co.
I
οὐ μὲν γὰρ τοῦ γε κρεῖσσον καὶ ἄρειον,
ἢ ὅθ᾽ ὁμοφρονέοντε νοήμασιν οἶκον ἔχητον
ἀνὴρ ἠδὲ γυνή *
RⓇ
OUND the skirts of the plantation, and half-way down the hill,
there runs a thick fringe of wild cherry-trees. Their white
blossom makes, for three weeks in the year, a pretty con-
trast with the larches and Scotch firs that serrate the long ridge
above; and close under their branches runs the line of oak rails
that marks off the plantation from the meadow.
A laboring-man came deliberately round the slope, as if fol-
lowing this line of rails. As a matter of fact, he was treading
*«For greater strength and virtue are there none
Than where with single mind a man and wife
Maintain a household. »
## p. 11953 (#587) ##########################################
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
11953
the little-used footpath that here runs close alongside the fence
for fifty yards before diverging down-hill towards the village. So
narrow is this path that the man's boots were powdered to a rich
gold by the buttercups they had brushed aside.
By-and-by he came to a standstill, looked over the fence, and
listened. Up among the larches a faint chopping sound could
just be heard, irregular but persistent. The man put a hand to
his mouth, and hailed
"Hi-i-i! Knock off! Stable clock's gone noo-oon! "
Came back no answer.
But the chopping ceased at once; and
this apparently satisfied the man, who leaned against the rail
and waited, chewing a spear of brome-grass, and staring stead-
ily but incuriously at his boots. Two minutes passed without
stir or sound in this corner of the land. The human figure was
motionless. The birds in the plantation were taking their noon-
day siesta. A brown butterfly rested with spread wings on the
rail so quietly, he might have been pinned there.
A cracked voice was suddenly lifted a dozen yards off, and
within the plantation: -
――
-
"Such a man as I be to work! Never heard a note o' that
blessed clock, if you'll believe me. Ab-sorbed, I s'pose. "
A thin withered man in a smock-frock emerged from among
the cherry-trees with a bill-hook in his hand, and stooped to pass
under the rail.
"Ewgh! The pains I suffer in that old back of mine you'll
never believe, my son, not till the appointed time when you come
to suffer 'em yoursel'. Well-a-well! Says I just now, up among
the larches, Heigh, my sonny-boys, I can crow over you, any-
ways: for I was a man grown when Squire planted ye; and here
I be, a lusty gaffer, markin' ye down for destruction. ' But hullo!
where's the dinner? "
"There bain't none. "
"Hey ? "
"There bain't none. "
"How's that? Damme! William Henry, dinner's dinner, an'
don't you joke about it. Once you begin to make fun o' sacred
things like meals and vittles -»
"And don't you flare up like that, at your time o' life. We're
fashionists to-day: dining out. 'Quarter after nine this morning
I was passing by the Green wi' the straw-cart, when old Jan
XX-748
## p. 11954 (#588) ##########################################
11954
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
Trueman calls after me, 'Have 'ee heard the news? ' 'What
news? ' says I. 'Why,' says he, 'me an' my misses be going
into the House this afternoon-can't manage to pull along by
ourselves any more,' he says; 'an' we wants you an' your father
to drop in soon after noon an' take a bite wi' us, for old times'
sake. 'Tis our last taste o' free life, and we'm going to do the
thing fittywise,' he says. "
The old man bent a meditative look on the village roofs
below.
"We'll pleasure 'en, of course," he said slowly. "So 'tis come
round to Jan's turn? But a' was born in the year of Waterloo
victory, ten year' afore me, so I s'pose he've kept his doom off
longer than most. "
The two set off down the footpath. There is a stile at the
foot of the meadow, and as he climbed it painfully, the old man
spoke again.
"And his doorway, I reckon, 'll be locked for a little while,
an' then opened by strangers; an' his nimble youth be forgot
like a flower o' the field; an' fare thee well, Jan Trueman!
Maria, too I can mind her well as a nursing mother-a comely
woman in her day. I'd no notion they'd got this in their
mind. "
-
"Far as I can gather, they've been minded that way ever
since their daughter Jane died, last fall. '
>>>
From the stile where they stood they could look down into
the village street. And old Jan Trueman was plain to see, in
clean linen and his Sunday suit, standing in the doorway and
welcoming his guests.
"Come ye income ye in, good friends," he called, as they
approached. "There's cold bekkon, an' cold sheep's liver, an'
Dutch cheese, besides bread, an' a thimble-full o' gin-an'-water
for every soul among ye, to make it a day of note in the
parish. "
He looked back over is shoulder into the kitchen.
"And that bird with an acorn in its beak? "
"That's a jay. He's collecting his provisions for the winter;
but as he's silly, he'll forget where he puts them, and will starve
with the rest. "
"Have some creatures more sense than others? »
"Yes: it's just like us, there are rascals and fools. Any one
who notices their ways knows they understand. "
"But they can't talk like us? »
"You may be sure that they make each other understand in
their own way. "
"And perhaps they're not so bad as us, for they don't want
gendarmes. "
This last word reminded the child of the poacher's capture:
'Lanie's father had so often talked about it before him. He
longed to question his friend, hesitated at last said:-
"Tell me, Jean, is it true? "
―
"What? "
"Is it true that you had a sweetheart at Vibraye? »
The climber turned as red as a cherry.
<< Stuff and nonsense! I've never set foot in the place. "
"I believe you- but I've heard it said - But tell me, what's
the meaning of a sweetheart ? »
"I've never had one; but from what they say, it's a sort
of lass that one dances with at the assemblies, and takes home
through the lanes, and kisses in the dusk. "
"Did you ever meet any in the forest? "
"No, never, because I get out of their way. Girls make too
much noise with their chatter, and they make me feel quite silly
when they fix their eyes on me. And then it's a waste of time,
for what's the good of kissing the hussies? »
"But you had other company in the forest, Renaud. I'm told
you went there with -»
"Little goose! with whom? "
"With a gun. ”
Jean hung his head without answering.
"Is it true? Oh, how I should have liked to see it. You
haven't got it any longer? "
The poacher stammered out:-
"Don't ever talk about that.
___
I have no gun. ”
## p. 11941 (#575) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11941
"What a pity. I should have so liked to hear you make it
say 'Bang! We would have gone out together, and you would
have shot some nice little creatures for me. "
Jean Renaud trembled all over. He had left off poaching,
in order to devote himself to the child. He feared danger now
that he had become a father, and the spiders spun their webs
undisturbed over the plank which concealed his gun. He had
given up thinking about it. The child's caresses had lulled the
passion to sleep, and here was the boy awakening it! That gun
is at home-actually under his hands. Oh, if he might take
the good weapon out of its hiding-place, and aim at a bound-
ing fawn, and smell powder once more! It all comes back to his
memory; the fierce passion lights up again;-but no, the orphan
has need of him; he must not be imprisoned now. He turns
pale with the effort, but he masters himself.
"Let's be off," he says sadly.
"Those are all lies,- the gun
was broken long ago. "
The Little Parisian asked every Sunday to be taken farther
into the forest; but he was too weak for so much fatigue.
Renaud made for him a sort of wheelbarrow with long arms,
like those the milkmaids use to carry their milk. He lined it
thickly with grass, and insisted on his dear Jacques sitting in it
when they went a long way. He wheeled it all along the paths,
carefully avoiding the stones and ruts so as not to shake the
child.
"You will see quite as well," he said, "and you won't get
tired. "
Sometimes the little fellow, overcome by so much fresh air,
would fall asleep in the midst of the woods. Renaud, his per-
ception sharpened by love, would stop on some pretext or other;
for it never does to tell a child he is sleepy. It was Jean, the
indefatigable Jean, who complained of fatigue. He stretched
himself, and said he wanted to go home.
"Oh, I'm not a bit tired," said Jacques, pouting. And his
little eyes closed in spite of his efforts. Jean would rest the
curly head softly on his shoulder, lifting the little sleeper care-
fully, carry him to the barrow, and wheel him slowly home.
It was at this time that the forester learned to sew in order
to mend the orphan's clothes. As soon as the little blouse got
torn in the brushwood, this man, whose tenderness made a
woman of him, might be seen sitting outside his door, gravely
1
I
## p. 11942 (#576) ##########################################
11942
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
and patiently using his needle with his awkward fingers. The
white thread made strange figures on the mended hole.
He was
so busily engaged that he hardly gave himself time to breathe,
he tried so hard to make his darn strong and neat. Often on
a Sunday morning he was heard washing a child's shirt in the
river, beating it with a wooden beetle.
The two companions lived in this way for about ten months.
September had already reddened the first leaves of the maple.
They met Mélanie's father at the stone quarry. His manner was
never very pleasant; this time he only answered curtly:-
"Good-day. "
"Are you going for a walk? "
"Nay, I'm looking for my new spade that I've lost. "
"Shall we lend a hand? "
"I don't care much for your company. "
"And the child, won't you speak to him? "
"What should I say? I don't admire the way you're bringing
him up. "
"Really, do you want him to go into the saw-pit at his age? '
"No-nonsense. I should like him to go to church. He's
But as your grand-
been trusted to you, and you misuse him.
father said before me, you're more like a wolf than a man.
Renaud had never thought on the subject. The voices of the
forest, and another voice within himself, had whispered to him
that there was something greater than the woods and the wood-
cutters-up there where the stars were shining. But his faith,
too abstract not to be vague, was not in any way connected with
the Christian ceremonies, which he did not understand. His aspi-
rations were religious, but ignorantly unbelieving when he tried
to reason.
« as
"I think I should be bored in heaven," he used to say,
they have nothing to do but sit still and sing psalms. I'd rather
roam about in the woods. "
"'Lanie would have taken the boy to church," resumed the
old man, "and when he was old enough, to confirmation. You
are no better than an arquelier. "
An arquelier means a mischievous vagabond. It is evidently
a contemptuous diminutive of the word arquebusier, and has
remained in use among our country-folk ever since the Middle
Ages, when the peasantry suffered from the depredations of the
hired soldiery.
## p. 11943 (#577) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11943
"I don't hold much to such devout folks," retorted Renaud.
"Isn't every one free to do what he thinks right? But wherever
Mélanie would have taken the boy I'll take him. "
From that day he took the Little Parisian every Sunday to
mass. The two were to be seen standing, silent and motionless,
at the entrance near the font. When the priest went up into
the pulpit to preach, Jean coughed and spit in imitation of other
people; the rest of the time he was perfectly quiet. When the
blessed bread was distributed, he put his piece carefully into his
cap, to give it to the little one when they left the church.
Jacques generally stood on tiptoe, looking into the choir.
Jean remarked this, and looked in the same direction; but saw
nothing except the schoolboys ranged in parallel lines, with the
schoolmaster at their head. When the mass was over, the lit-
tle band went out in single file, with a formidable clattering of
sabots. Some pushed those in front or overturned a chair by
mistake, then hid their mouths with their sleeves to laugh with-
out noise.
"What were you looking at just now, Jacques? You were
quite absorbed. "
"The schoolboys and the gentleman in spectacles. "
"There's nothing curious in them. In old times I too used
to go to school. I found it very tiresome. "
"I shouldn't find it tiresome. Can you read, Jean? "
"Not a word. What's the good? "
"To know about things. They say that books explain all sorts
of nice things. "
The climber shrugged his shoulders. But every time they
met the schoolboys, Jacques looked at them with envy and talked
of books with regret.
"You want, then, to be a scholar? "
"Yes, to be sure, dear Jean. I should be ever so glad to
learn. "
Renaud considered that the expense would be small, and that
the child would be better at school in bad weather than all alone
in the woods.
"Well, then, we'll put you to school. "
He took the boy, eager and joyful, to the same master who
had been the bugbear of his childhood.
"No offense, Jean Renaud," said the latter-"but I hope the
little fellow will not be as slow as you were. "
## p. 11944 (#578) ##########################################
I 1944
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
"Well now, master, boys are not all alike. This boy is clever.
I never was. No offense-but I never was so bored in my life
as when I was with you. "
"All right: and is this little man your brother? »
Renaud replied, shyly and sadly:-
"Jacques was Mélanie's nursling. "
The good man asked no more questions; and the Little Paris-
ian joined the class on the next day.
Renaud watched tenderly over the little scholar.
He bought
no winter waistcoat for himself, in order that Jacques might have
a new suit of clothes. He washed his hands and face carefully
every morning. The little wallet was filled with provisions to
last all day. Jean made an enormous round to take the child
half-way to school before going to his work. When he left him
the little chap walked very steadily for fear of tearing his new
blouse, and once in school astonished the master by his intelli-
gence. And in the evening what a pleasure it was to follow the
shady paths, and join his big brother in the midst of the forest,
and then both go home by a short cut! When there, one would
light the fire and the other set on the soup; then they pricked
two lovely apples, and watched them frothing in the cinders.
Next year, when the Little Parisian had learned to read, Jean .
became uneasy.
"This boy's too clever for me. I fancy he'll get tired of my
company. "
And he tried to think of something, besides providing for
physical wants, to amuse his little companion. His unselfishness
led him even to leave the forest, to frequent the fêtes in neigh-
boring towns. He lifted the boy on to the merry-go-rounds,
when the wooden horses turned slowly to the sound of a hand-
organ; made him take shares in lotteries for macaroons and
wine-glasses. They witnessed the rough sports of the young
farmers, who drank all the more when they were not thirsty, and
whose wit consisted in pinching the waists of the girls and mak-
ing them scream without being found out. Vehicles filled with
whole families drove in, raising a terrible dust. The violin
squeaked in the place marked out by ropes for dancing. The
dentist "from Paris," established with great pomp on his un-
horsed carriage, a huge case of instruments in the front, held
firmly on the seat a peasant adorned with a swelled face, and
informed the public that he was going to extract the tooth with
## p. 11945 (#579) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11945
the same instrument that he used for crowned heads. At a little
distance long tables were spread under sheds, charged with cider
and strong-smelling drinks. The landlord's assistant had to make
way with his elbows to the billiard table, to separate two sabot-
makers who were settling a doubtful game with a fight.
"Do you enjoy the fun, my little Jacques? " said Renaud,
trying to look delighted.
"On the contrary, I am bored to death. My head aches, and
I feel sick. I like the forest ever so much better. "
But there were also fêtes in the forest. There they felt at
home, and Renaud took his little friend to all of them.
First, there was gathering the lilies-of-the-valley about Ascen-
sion Day. The fields are celebrated for their profusion from
Grez to St. Agert. Gentle and simple alike love these sweet
flowers, whose milky whiteness gleams in the shade, against the
deep green of their pointed leaves. All the idle population of
the neighboring towns crowds the forest in the charming sea-
son when the lilies burst into flower. The woods change their
aspect. Young men from town arrive with their great-coats
under their arms; young ladies sing in high soprano voices the
romances of Louisa Puget; some young men are exchanging
words of love with their sweethearts, others pursuing the objects
of their fancy. In the evening, nosegays pass from hand to
hand. The mothers follow, large and imposing, their caps ad-
orned with artificial flowers, the strings floating in the breeze.
Greasy papers cover the ground in open spaces. One hears the
bottles knock against each other in the baskets carried by means
of a walking-stick passed through the handles by some happy
couple.
On the Fête of St. Louis (August 15th) the nutting begins.
The strangers come again, and once more fill the forest with
noisy merriment. The nuts in their hairy envelopes cover the
branches. The draper's wife has stuffed her pockets with them;
the policeman has filled his basket. The priest's nephew, a cor-
poral on leave, strikes them down with a quarter-staff; the col-
lector's wife uses her yellow parasol to bend down the branches.
Some of the young men get excited, and challenge each other
to a gymnastic bout. Elsewhere they are dancing in a ring. No
one but the barber, who was formerly a waiter in Courbevoie,
refuses to take part, and replies scornfully, "I only care for reg-
ular dances. "
## p. 11946 (#580) ##########################################
11946
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
The Little Parisian draws his friend on one side.
"I don't care for this either: let's be off, brother. "
"My darling, you love the real forest, then, as much as I
do? "
"Yes, I do love it. But you don't know how I wish that
what the people said was true that dear Jean had a gun, and
we could hunt the game together. "
Renaud the Poacher trembled.
What! again this longing! How often has he cherished it
himself during the two years they have lived together!
"What are you talking about? " he broke out: "are you mad?
My gun? I swear it's broken; but why-why are you always
thinking of sport? "
The Little Parisian looks dreamily up at the green vault over
his head; he inhales the scent of the woods; he has all sorts of
wild thoughts. The mysterious thicket attracts him; he begins to
understand why he loves the Chemins-Verts. He replies:-
"I don't know if I am thinking of sport, but I long to get
deeper and deeper into the forest, to watch all that goes on, to
catch the birds on the wing. "
The dead leaves lay in heaps on the path, the wind had
blown them into ridges like the waves of the sea. He stepped
over them proudly, and threw back his head, thrilling with youth-
ful excitement, and exclaimed: -
"The forest is ours!
this delicious air is ours! "
Renaud saw himself in this enthusiastic child.
## p. 11947 (#581) ##########################################
11947
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
(1863-)
HE fiction of the English writer who began by signing his lit-
erary work with the initial "Q. ," is among the most virile
and pleasing written by the younger British school. A. T.
Quiller-Couch-the full name of this author-makes stories that are
full of vigor and invention; romantic in treatment, yet realistic in
their close observation, and in the understanding sympathy with which
he studies the life of humble folk and the types and scenes of his
native country. He is a Cornishman, and has given his main atten-
tion to the people of that locality, spending
most of his time within the sound of the
Cornish seas. His novels and short tales in
spirit and method affiliate him with Barrie,
Kipling, and Stevenson, and he is little in-
ferior to them in strength and originality.
Although his literary production includes
criticism and poetry, his reputation is based
substantially on his stories. 'Dead Man's
Rock' in 1887 won him much favor, and
other books followed in due course: The
Astonishing History of Troy Town, The
Splendid Spur,' and 'The Blue Pavilions,'
historical novels; and the collections of A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
short stories entitled 'Naughts and Crosses,'
'I Saw Three Ships; and other Winter's Tales,' 'The Delectable
Duchy,' and 'Wandering Heath. ' 'Ia,' a novelette, is a tale of love
in a Cornish fishing village. Mr. Quiller-Couch's strongest novel is
the brilliant 'The Splendid Spur,' recognized by the critics as one of
the most stirring romances by a contemporaneous English novelist.
In 'The Delectable Duchy,' which is finely representative of his
short-story work, are grouped a number of Cornish tales and sketches,
exquisite for truth, pathos, and poetry, rich with feeling for the lights
and shadows in the life of the Welsh poor. The writer thus ranges
from the dramatic to the idyllic, and is successful in both veins. His
fiction as a whole is thoroughly healthy and inspiriting. The unpleas-
ant realism and the decadent pessimism of the day he stands quite
apart from.
Like R. L. Stevenson, he unites the power of making
>
## p. 11948 (#582) ##########################################
11948
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
stories instinct with adventurous interest, with a literary gift and an
insight into character which have gained him the approval of captious
critics, and made him a favorite with those who read a story for the
story's sake.
In his personality and manner of life, Quiller-Couch seems a man
of affairs and of outdoor sports rather than the traditional book-man.
He was born November 21st, 1863. His family has lived in Corn-
wall for generations, and he comes of good stock; father, uncle, and
grandfather being distinguished scientists in the fields of biology and
medicine. He was educated in various Devonshire schools, then went
up to Trinity College, Oxford. As an undergraduate he contributed
clever verse to the college paper, adopting the pseudonym "Q. " He
was and is an athlete, as one might infer from his books,- and in
his day was stroke of the college boat. He took his degree in 1887,
and was appointed classical lecturer at Trinity; but soon turned to
fiction, went to London, and joined the staff of the Speaker - Barrie
being a fellow-worker. This newspaper connection has been retained
ever since, although Mr. Quiller-Couch now lives in a charming
country house at Fowey in Cornwall. The volume 'Adventures in
Criticism' is made up of selected book reviews representing his jour-
nalistic work, which is decidedly fresh and good. The Elizabethan
anthology, The Golden Pomp,' also testifies to his reading and schol-
arship.
The work of A. T. Quiller-Couch is refutation of the charge that
the end-of-the-century in English literature has nothing to offer but
the morbid and unwholesome. He is a strong, manly writer, whose
steadily growing influence is tonic and welcome.
WHEN THE SAP ROSE: A FANTASIA
From The Delectable Duchy. Copyright 1893, by Macmillan & Co.
Α
N OLD yellow van, the "Comet," came jolting along the edge
of the downs and shaking its occupants together like peas
in a bladder. The bride and bridegroom did not mind
this much; but the Registrar of Births, Deaths, and Marriages,
who had bound them in wedlock at the Bible Christian Chapel
two hours before, was discomforted by a pair of tight boots, that
nipped cruelly whenever he stuck out his feet to keep his equi-
librium.
Nevertheless, his mood was genial; for the young people had
taken his suggestion and acquired a copy of their certificate.
## p. 11949 (#583) ##########################################
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
11949
This meant five extra shillings in his pocket. Therefore, when
the van drew up at the cross-roads for him to alight, he wished
them long life and a multitude of children with quite a fatherly
air.
"You can't guess where I'm bound for.
It's to pay my
old mother a visit. Ah, family life's the pretty life-that ever
I should say it! "
They saw no reason why he should be cynical, more than
other men. And the bride, in whose eyes this elderly gentleman
with the tight boots appeared a rosy-winged Cupid, waved her
handkerchief until the vehicle had sidled round the hill, resem-
bling in its progress a very infirm crab in a hurry.
As a fact, the Registrar wore a silk hat, a suit of black West-
of-England broadcloth, a watch-chain made out of his dead wife's
hair, and two large seals that clashed together when he moved
His face was wide and round, with a sanguine complexion, gray
side-whiskers, and a cicatrix across the chin. He had shaved in
a hurry that morning; for the wedding was early, and took place
on the extreme verge of his district. His is a beautiful office
recording day by day the solemnest and most mysterious events
in nature. Yet, standing at the cross-roads, between down and
woodland, under an April sky full of sun and southwest wind,
he threw the ugliest shadow in the landscape.
The road towards the coast dipped-too steeply for tight
boots - down a wooded coombe; and he followed it, treading deli-
cately. The hollow of the V ahead, where the hills overlapped
against the pale blue, was powdered with a faint brown bloom,
soon to be green, an infinity of bursting buds. The larches
stretched their arms upwards, as men waking. The yellow was
out on the gorse, with a heady scent like a pineapple's; and
between the bushes spread the gray film of coming bluebells.
High up, the pines sighed along the ridge, turning paler; and
far down, where the brook ran, a mad duet was going on be-
tween thrush and chaffinch,-"Cheer up, cheer up, Queen! " "Clip,
clip, clip, and kiss me-Sweet! "—one against the other.
Now, the behavior of the Registrar of Births, Deaths, and
Marriages changed as he descended the valley. At first he went
from side to side, because the loose stones were sharp and lay
unevenly; soon he zigzagged for another purpose,-to peer into
the bank for violets, to find a gap between the trees where, by
## p. 11950 (#584) ##########################################
11950
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
bending down with a hand on each knee and his head tilted
back, he could see the primroses stretching in broad sheets to
the very edge of the pine woods. By frequent tilting his collar
broke from its stud and his silk hat settled far back on his neck.
Next he unbuttoned his waistcoat and loosened his braces; but
no, he could not skip,- his boots were too tight He looked at
each tree as he passed. "If I could only see » he muttered.
"I'll swear there used to be one on the right, just here. "
But he could not find it here,- perhaps his memory misgave
him; and presently turned with decision, climbed the low fence
on his left, between him and the hollow of the coombe, and
dropped into the plantation on the other side. Here the ground
was white in patches with anemones; and as his feet crushed
them, descending, the babel of the birds grew louder and louder.
He issued on a small clearing by the edge of the brook,
where the grass was a delicate green, each blade pushing up
straight as a spear-point from the crumbled earth.
Here were
more anemones, between patches of last year's bracken, and on
the further slope a mass of daffodils. He pulled out a pocket-
knife that had sharpened some hundreds of quill pens, and look-
ing to his right, found what he wanted at once.
It was a sycamore, on which the buds were swelling. He cut
a small twig, as big round as his middle finger, and sitting him-
self down on a barked log close by, began to measure and cut it
to a span's length, avoiding all knots. Then, taking the knife by
the blade between finger and thumb, he tapped the bark gently
with the tortoise-shell handle. And as he tapped, his face went
back to boyhood again, in spite of the side-whiskers, and his
mouth was pursed up to a silent tune.
For ten minutes the tapping continued, the birds ceased their
contention, and broke out restlessly at intervals. A rabbit across
the brook paused and listened at the funnel-shaped mouth of his
hole, which caught the sound and redoubled it.
"Confound these boots! " said the Registrar, and pulling them
off, tossed them among the primroses. They were "elastic-sides. "
The tapping ceased. A breath of the landward breeze came
up, combing out the tangle that winter had made in the grass,
caught the brook on the edge of a tiny fall, and puffed it back
six inches in a spray of small diamonds. It quickened the whole
copse. The oak saplings rubbed their old leaves one on another,
## p. 11951 (#585) ##########################################
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as folks rub their hands, feeling life and warmth; the chestnut
buds groped like an infant's fingers; and the chorus broke out
again, the thrush leading,-"Tiurru, tiurru, chippewee; tio-tee, tio-
tee; queen, queen, que-een ! »
In a moment or two he broke off suddenly, and a honey-bee
shot out of an anemone-bell like a shell from a mortar.
For a
new sound disconcerted them—a sound sharp and piercing. The
Registrar had finished his whistle and was blowing like mad,
moving his fingers up and down. Having proved his instrument,
he dived a hand into his tail-pocket and drew out a roll, tied
around with ribbon. It was the folded leather-bound volume in
which he kept his blank certificates. And spreading it on his
knees, he took his whistle again and blew, reading his music from
the blank pages, and piping a strain he had never dreamed of.
For he whistled of Births and Marriages.
O happy Registrar! O happy, happy Registrar! You will
never get into those elastic-sides again. Your feet swell as they
tap the swelling earth, and at each tap the flowers push, the sap
climbs, the speck of life moves in the hedge-sparrow's egg; while
far away on the downs, with each tap the yellow van takes bride
and groom a foot nearer felicity. It is hard work in worsted
socks; for you smite with the vehemence of Pan, and Pan had a
hoof of horn.
The Registrar's mother lived in the fishing-village, two miles
down the coombe. Her cottage leant back against the cliff so
closely that the boys, as they followed the path above, could toss
tabs of turf down her chimney: and this was her chief annoy-
ance.
Now it was close on the dinner-hour, and she stood in her
kitchen beside a pot of stew that simmered over the wreck-wood
fire.
Suddenly a great lump of earth and grass came bouncing
down the chimney, striking from side to side, and soused into
pot, scattering the hot stew over the hearth-stone and splash-
ing her from head to foot.
Quick as thought, she caught up a besom and rushed out
around the corner of the cottage.
"You stinking young adders! " she began.
A big man stood on the slope above her.
«< Mother, cuff my head, that's a dear. I couldn' help doin' it. "
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It was the elderly Registrar. His hat, collar, tie, and waist-
coat were awry; his boots were slung on the walking-stick over
his shoulder; stuck in his mouth and lit was a twist of root-fibre,
such as country boys use for lack of cigars, and he himself had
used forty years before.
The old woman turned to an ash color, leant on her besom,
and gasped.
"William Henry! "
"I'm not drunk, mother: been a Band of Hope these dozen
years. "
He stepped down the slope to her and bent his head
low. "Box my ears, mother, quick! You used to have a wonder-
ful gift o' cuffin'. "
"William Henry, I'm bound to do it or die. "
"Then be quick about it. "
Half laughing, half sobbing, she caught him a feeble cuff,
and next instant held him close to her old breast. The Registrar
disengaged himself after a minute, brushed his eyes, straightened
his hat, picked up the besom, and offered her his arm. They
passed into the cottage together.
THE PAUPERS
From The Delectable Duchy. ' Copyright 1893, by Macmillan & Co.
I
οὐ μὲν γὰρ τοῦ γε κρεῖσσον καὶ ἄρειον,
ἢ ὅθ᾽ ὁμοφρονέοντε νοήμασιν οἶκον ἔχητον
ἀνὴρ ἠδὲ γυνή *
RⓇ
OUND the skirts of the plantation, and half-way down the hill,
there runs a thick fringe of wild cherry-trees. Their white
blossom makes, for three weeks in the year, a pretty con-
trast with the larches and Scotch firs that serrate the long ridge
above; and close under their branches runs the line of oak rails
that marks off the plantation from the meadow.
A laboring-man came deliberately round the slope, as if fol-
lowing this line of rails. As a matter of fact, he was treading
*«For greater strength and virtue are there none
Than where with single mind a man and wife
Maintain a household. »
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the little-used footpath that here runs close alongside the fence
for fifty yards before diverging down-hill towards the village. So
narrow is this path that the man's boots were powdered to a rich
gold by the buttercups they had brushed aside.
By-and-by he came to a standstill, looked over the fence, and
listened. Up among the larches a faint chopping sound could
just be heard, irregular but persistent. The man put a hand to
his mouth, and hailed
"Hi-i-i! Knock off! Stable clock's gone noo-oon! "
Came back no answer.
But the chopping ceased at once; and
this apparently satisfied the man, who leaned against the rail
and waited, chewing a spear of brome-grass, and staring stead-
ily but incuriously at his boots. Two minutes passed without
stir or sound in this corner of the land. The human figure was
motionless. The birds in the plantation were taking their noon-
day siesta. A brown butterfly rested with spread wings on the
rail so quietly, he might have been pinned there.
A cracked voice was suddenly lifted a dozen yards off, and
within the plantation: -
――
-
"Such a man as I be to work! Never heard a note o' that
blessed clock, if you'll believe me. Ab-sorbed, I s'pose. "
A thin withered man in a smock-frock emerged from among
the cherry-trees with a bill-hook in his hand, and stooped to pass
under the rail.
"Ewgh! The pains I suffer in that old back of mine you'll
never believe, my son, not till the appointed time when you come
to suffer 'em yoursel'. Well-a-well! Says I just now, up among
the larches, Heigh, my sonny-boys, I can crow over you, any-
ways: for I was a man grown when Squire planted ye; and here
I be, a lusty gaffer, markin' ye down for destruction. ' But hullo!
where's the dinner? "
"There bain't none. "
"Hey ? "
"There bain't none. "
"How's that? Damme! William Henry, dinner's dinner, an'
don't you joke about it. Once you begin to make fun o' sacred
things like meals and vittles -»
"And don't you flare up like that, at your time o' life. We're
fashionists to-day: dining out. 'Quarter after nine this morning
I was passing by the Green wi' the straw-cart, when old Jan
XX-748
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Trueman calls after me, 'Have 'ee heard the news? ' 'What
news? ' says I. 'Why,' says he, 'me an' my misses be going
into the House this afternoon-can't manage to pull along by
ourselves any more,' he says; 'an' we wants you an' your father
to drop in soon after noon an' take a bite wi' us, for old times'
sake. 'Tis our last taste o' free life, and we'm going to do the
thing fittywise,' he says. "
The old man bent a meditative look on the village roofs
below.
"We'll pleasure 'en, of course," he said slowly. "So 'tis come
round to Jan's turn? But a' was born in the year of Waterloo
victory, ten year' afore me, so I s'pose he've kept his doom off
longer than most. "
The two set off down the footpath. There is a stile at the
foot of the meadow, and as he climbed it painfully, the old man
spoke again.
"And his doorway, I reckon, 'll be locked for a little while,
an' then opened by strangers; an' his nimble youth be forgot
like a flower o' the field; an' fare thee well, Jan Trueman!
Maria, too I can mind her well as a nursing mother-a comely
woman in her day. I'd no notion they'd got this in their
mind. "
-
"Far as I can gather, they've been minded that way ever
since their daughter Jane died, last fall. '
>>>
From the stile where they stood they could look down into
the village street. And old Jan Trueman was plain to see, in
clean linen and his Sunday suit, standing in the doorway and
welcoming his guests.
"Come ye income ye in, good friends," he called, as they
approached. "There's cold bekkon, an' cold sheep's liver, an'
Dutch cheese, besides bread, an' a thimble-full o' gin-an'-water
for every soul among ye, to make it a day of note in the
parish. "
He looked back over is shoulder into the kitchen.
