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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/75957-0.txt b/75957-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a256a1e --- /dev/null +++ b/75957-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1802 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75957 *** + + + + + + Petunia Again + + SKETCHES + + BY + S. ELIZABETH JACKSON + + A book is very like a kite, being made of paper and + sent out at a venture. + + _G. K. Chesterton._ + + ADELAIDE + G. HASSELL & SON + 1920 + + + + +TO + +MY GRANDFATHER + +J.T.C. + + +_The little girl that was me_: “I’ve nothing to read in the train.” + +_My grandfather_: “And you won’t need anything. There will be things to +see and people to listen to.” + + + + +PREFACE. + + +“At Petunia” was received so kindly that I venture to offer these +final sketches. The little township on the plains is now for me only a +happy memory. Unlike their predecessors, most of the present sketches +and essays have appeared before, either in _Orion_, _The Adelaide +University Magazine_, _The Red Cross Record_, or _The Woman’s Record_, +which I have to thank for allowing me to re-publish. + + S.E.J. + + Woodside, + 10th November, 1920. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +Petunia Again + + Page + + Welcome 1 + + The Backblocks 3 + + The Aeroplane 5 + + From the Chinese 8 + + Adopting Emily 10 + + Twocott 13 + + A Country Writer 14 + + The Hypnotist 23 + + Tin Lizzie 24 + + The Show 26 + + The Haircut 28 + + Scipio 29 + + Bill Boundy 31 + + An Angry Man 33 + + Alcibiades 36 + + News 37 + + Amusing Daisy 39 + + Obiit 41 + + The Drought 41 + + +The Works of Simple Simon, LL.D., +D.Litt., Ph.D., M.B., B.S. + + An Emendation 44 + + A Protest 46 + + A “Lancet” Article 48 + + An Application of Psychology to Medicine 50 + + Our National Bulletin 52 + + Nigger 60 + + +Miscellaneous + + The Queen City of the South 62 + + A Literature in the Making 68 + + + + +Petunia Again + + +Welcome + +Such a week as we have had in the country! You talk about the stopping +of the cars giving people a welcome rest in the evenings. Well, we have +no cars to stop, and only three trains a week, and still we can manage +eleven social engagements in six days! Three of them were welcomes to +soldiers. Seventy-eight went away from this district, and every time +one returns (and that is very often now, thank God!) all the houses +along the route from the railway station are decorated with flags. I +expect that sometimes he wonders why people who take the trouble to +decorate in his honour do not come out to wave. When he gets to the +Institute he knows, because we are all there waiting to cheer and make +speeches. Nothing about our boys has been finer than the courtesy with +which they take our cheers and let us say “Thank you.” It relieves +us, but oh, how it embarrasses them! They redden, but they smile, +and are far from looking foolish when they “get up to reply.” The +speeches aren’t always very easy to reply to, either, because what +we call courage and duty-doing they think just a matter of course. +Perhaps nothing more to the point has ever been said to them than this +spontaneous outburst in one speech:—“By Jo, we are glad to see you.” +It was worth all the rest about gallantry, and endurance, and honour, +and so on. We thought all that, too, but just then what was delighting +us was to see them. We had missed them, and now they were back and +we would meet them in our daily lives again. And next morning their +mothers would wake up happy because George and Clem were safe back, +actually in the house in their own room at that moment! + +Well, besides these official (and yet quite informal) welcomes there +was also a large private party where another soldier, welcomed some +time before, was to dance and talk with his friends, and there was also +a Butterfly Fair, because now the war is over we simply must have a +piano for the Sunday School Kindergarten. And there was the Red Cross +meeting, and a Home Mission meeting, and the literary society, and +choir practice, and a Band of Hope concert, and, of course, football on +Saturday, for most of our players are coming back again now, though +there are some we shall never see. + + +The Backblocks + +Too many town people are prepared to talk as though “the outbacks” were +anywhere beyond a 20-mile radius of the G.P.O. When you are really in +the backblocks you turn the washing machine for your hostess, make +complicated arrangements for keeping the ants out of the sugar, help +“separate,” cut out some jumpers for the children on the newest town +pattern, and take your afternoon ride on the poison-cart attending to +bunny. Once or twice a week you go into the township for the mail. You +bath frugally because all the water is caught off the roof or in the +dam, and you empty the tub on to what garden there is, for none can be +wasted. + +I pity all healthy women who never have a chance to go sometimes where +life, though not easy, is simple and self-contained and wholesome, +where the work cannot be delegated to the baker or the small goods +man or the dressmaker just because the weather is hot or you don’t +feel up to the mark. Without this you cannot feel all the joy of being +thoroughly essential to your family—nor its occasional terror. Only +very fine women can live such a life properly, though. You have to +find your happiness and your amusement in the life itself, not in some +artificial amusement patched on for the moment. You have to find it in +permanent and ultimate things, in love and work and effort and hope and +helpfulness, not in “The Pictures” or a variety show. + +I don’t pretend not to enjoy a variety show myself when I’m in town, +and I don’t pretend that Petunia is in the backblocks, but it is in +the country, and I am quite sure that country life is as enjoyable as +a town one, though not every one feels it. Anyone can take a pill, but +not all can make one, nor even pick out the ingredients from a lot of +herbs and drugs presented to them. + +I suppose that is the trouble with Joyce Wickhams. She has gone to work +in town so that she can go to the Pav. and Henley Beach on band nights +as often as she likes. I hope she will miss feeding the swill to the +grunting, shoving, greedy pigs, miss the leisurely cows, miss the glow +of health that you feel—without thinking about it—as you canter out for +them. And Saturday’s tennis is never quite so nice in town as it is in +the country, where you know everyone on the courts very well, are going +to sing with most of them at the concert in March, and went with them +to the working bee at the school last week. We shall miss Joyce. She +was the best housemaid we’ve ever had in our dialogues, and the most +popular waitress at tea meetings. Of course she will laugh a great deal +at Charlie Chaplin, and the town entertainments will be very clever, +but the fun that is made for you doesn’t make so much of your mind and +heart laugh as the fun that you help make yourself. + + +The Aeroplane + +The excitement continues. We’ve had rain and we’ve seen the aeroplane! +In fact they came together. On Sunday it was given out in the churches +that between 10 and 11 on Monday, Capt. Butler would fly over Petunia +and drop Peace Loan literature. Farmers immediately decided that one +morning off couldn’t make much difference to a bad season, and mothers +and daughters exchanged glances in which the washing was postponed. +When the school mistress had it announced in the Twocott chapel that +there would be no lessons next morning, the children’s flushed faces +were as good as cheers. Even the Hobbledehoy, who had seen the great +sight in town, of course, was not so blasé as he pretended. + +On Monday motors and traps and waggons poured into Petunia through +driving wind and rain. Pedestrians with umbrellas struggled against +the blast. I don’t quite know what we expected. Perhaps we thought +the aeroplane would only be visible from the main street, or that it +would land there, or that the literature would, and in any case, we +all wanted to take our excitement in company. We lined up for shelter +in the lee of shops and houses. Opinions differed. Some thought the +Institute the best site, some the post-office, and some plumped for +the vicinity of the Recreation Ground, as affording a clear view and a +suitable place for an airman to descend (or drop out) after a spiral or +a nose-dive. + +The Postmaster suggested that the weather might be too ... but we shut +him up for a croaker, and poddled about exchanging anticipations and +chaffing young Jones, who was “look-out” to report the arrival to the +expectant school. A stockman drifted in with a herd of yearlings, and +we watched him zig-zag them resignedly past the groups of traps and +people. Wet ruts gleamed in some fitful sunshine along the straight +road stretching between green paddocks into the moist distance. There +came an unexpected sound overhead, and the school children burst along +the street with decorous hilarity. Something we had seen in pictures +emerged from the grey and glided overhead, and into the distant grey +again, “like a spoggy in the sky,” as young Allen poetically observed. + +It was in sight for quite four minutes. + +Half an hour later we were fairly certain that there were to be no +nose-dives, no spirals, not even any literature. We snubbed the +Postmaster, and closed in on the Institute, where the chairman of the +district tried to focus our attention on the Peace Loan, and make us +feel we had not come out for nothing. Then laughing people turned their +collars up round their ears, climbed into buggies, and shook the reins. +“Gid-dup.” + + +From the Chinese + +A few people despise poetry; many more speak respectfully of it only +because they think they ought to, not because they, personally, +understand it or even appreciate it. Of course, it is quite easy to +enjoy a poem without understanding its technique, its rhyme, rhythm, +and so on, or without being able to say in what, apart from the form, +it differs from prose. “Can’t you _feel_ it?” is often the sufficient +answer, in the words of a certain professor of classics. + +The following fragment from the Chinese makes us feel that it is +poetry, though the translator cannot convey to us the poetic form of +the original. + + +PO CHU-I STARTS ON A JOURNEY EARLY IN THE MORNING. + + Washed by the rain, dust and grime are laid; + Skirting the river, the road’s course is flat. + The moon has risen on the last remnants of night; + The traveller’s speed profits by the early cold. + In the great silence I whisper a faint song; + In the black darkness are bred sombre thoughts. + On the lotus-banks hovers a dewy breeze; + Through the rice furrows trickles a singing stream. + At the noise of our bells a sleeping dog stirs; + At the sight of our torches a roosting bird wakes. + Dawn glimmers through the shapes of misty trees.... + For ten miles, till day at last breaks. + +“More than a thousand years have elapsed since that journey,” says the +_Times_ reviewer, “and nobody knows the words of that ‘faint song,’ or +the nature of those ‘sombre thoughts,’ but we are just as intimately +acquainted with Po Chu-I as if he had enlarged by the page on his +emotional complexities.... Chinese poetry aims to induce a mood rather +than to state a thought.... Po Chu-I’s sorrows and joys and placid +reveries hover in the mind after the book is closed, and that—and not +the number of startling remarks made—is the test of a poem’s value.” + +To-day or a thousand years ago, China or Australia, it is all the same. +You and I have made journeys like that, and can share the poet’s mood. +We have arisen early and crept about by lantern-light, we have let +ourselves out on to a road that lies white under a cold moon, and have +thrilled and hasted in the chill air. The first solemn joy gave place +to gloom as the heralding darkness enveloped the world. And then we +felt the dawn-breeze among the gum trees, and heard the creek rustle +through the water-cress. A dog barked, a bird peeped, and the first +pink cloud floated in the brightening sky. And then the world woke up, +the magpies and the farmyards and the pumping engine, and we were glad +that we were afoot and off, and a little proud about it. + +And a thousand years ago an old, old Chinaman sang our mood for us, +and lo! it was poetry. And because we have felt it all for ourselves, +though we did not know how to tell about it, what he says plays on our +minds like music, and we live the mood again. + + +Adopting Emily + +“Seen that fine tabby in the woodhouse?” enquired Joshua. + +“She’s got a beautiful white chest,” agreed Hob, “and that loose skin +and soft fur like old M’Glusky.” + +“And a pink nose,” said Daisy. + +“And her eyes are amber. Do let’s adopt her,” said I. + +“Yes, let’s,” chorused the others—all except Marjorie, who prefers +mousetraps, and says that where one or two cats are gathered together, +or something, there is always an awful noise. However, we determined to +have that tabby. + +Have you ever tried to adopt a duchess? A duchess in reduced +circumstances? Then you don’t know what we have been through with +Emily. (We call her Emily after Miss Fox-Seton, the “large, placid +creature, kind rather than intelligent,” who became Marchioness in one +of Mrs. Hodgson Burnett’s books.) Emily is a cat of character. She +didn’t want to be adopted. She didn’t mind renting our woodheap, but +preferred not to have to meet the family. She would keep herself to +herself, thank you. She used to sit, serene and dignified, blinking in +a sunbeam among the roots, lifting her white bosom and gently kneading +the ground. If you offered her food she seemed to put up her lorgnettes +at you, and it wasn’t any good leaving the saucer and going round the +corner. When you came back Emily was gone, and the food wasn’t. + +She certainly impressed us. We built up all sorts of legends around +her. Her disdain for food and her calm refusal either to accept +our advances, to withdraw from her place, or to be seen hurrying +at any time, seemed so very aristocratic. And then how she kept up +appearances! Marjorie scarcely took the same view as the rest of us, +especially after Emily so haughtily snubbed the milk she had offered +herself. She said she didn’t believe she was a duchess at all; more of +a peroxide barmaid about Emily, if you asked her, a minx with a bust +who put on airs. And a few nights later she said she wouldn’t have cats +encouraged about the place. She said she believed Emily was the cause +of that jazz party on the lawn in the moonlight. + +Emily jazz! Never! + +“Adopting Emily” became the favourite diversion of our leisure. In the +end it was very mortifying, very mortifying indeed. We were all sitting +on our heels round the woodheap coaxing Emily, and Emily as usual +was barely tolerating our presence, too proud to withdraw, when Mr. +Wickhams came across the paddocks to borrow another axe. + +“Well, I’m blowed!” said he; “so this is where our old cat goes. She’s +only been home for meals since the wife turned her out of the hat-box.” + +Yes, what we took for dignity was sulks, and her aristocratic +superiority to food was due, to put it bluntly, to a full stomach. Mr. +Wickhams handsomely forgave us for trying to abduct his best mouser as +he stretched a long arm into the wood and hauled her off by the scruff +of the neck. Such an indignity for Emily. + + +Twocott + +Driving out to Buxton on Wednesday afternoon, I picked up little Jennie +Elliott walking home from Twocott. + +“Do you go to school already?” I exclaimed. + +“Oh, I’ve been going a long time—ever since Christmas. We got a nice +teacher. She is always good to us—unless she can’t help it; and we are +always good to her, unless _we_ can’t help it.” Dear understanding +little mite. “All of us are in the second grade nearly.” “All of us” +have now learnt to sing, and Jennie is always out early—unless she is +kept in. + +She held on tightly to the side of the dog-cart and looked about the +country while she prattled out the gossip of the school from the point +of view of a six-year-old, and I felt a swelling of gratitude to the +wonderful teacher who keeps eight grades busy and happy and proud of +themselves, and convinced that she is proud of them, too! “All of us” +have a very nice time at Twocott, and are learning to be considerate +and tolerant and self-controlled, as well as the more formal lessons, +and all taught by a mere woman who understands the art of discipline +without a stick. + + +A Country Writer + +A writer in _The Times Literary Supplement_ complains of the dearth +of good novels of country life. The modern author, he asserts, claps +the story on to any county, irrespective of the spirit of the place. +He takes a tourist’s trip to Cornwall or Yorkshire, and makes a book +out of it, though his dialogue was never heard on land or sea, flowers +bloom together whose seasons never met, and his pitiful town thinness +of mind is visible alike in what he sees and in what he fails to see. + +Against these degenerate moderns the letter sets Richard Doddridge +Blackmore, and regrets that all his novels but one are neglected by an +undiscriminating or too hasty generation. + +Now it is the virtue of country libraries that, though only the +feeblest of modern novels may find a way there, the best of the old +linger on their shelves long after they have been ejected from more +pretentious places. And so, while this letter was still fresh in my +mind, in our Institute at Petunia, rubbing sides with volumes by Mrs. +Gaskell and Miss Braddon, I came across “Cripps the Carrier,” whose +title page proclaimed it to be “by the author of Lorna Doone.” I took +it home, despite my doubt, as I eyed its yellow pages and heavy print, +that I should pay with yawns for my virtuosity. + +And then on the very first page I met Dobbin, “the best harse as ever +looked through a bridle.” + +“Every ‘talented’ man must think, whenever he walks beside a horse, +of the superior talents of the horse ... the power of blowing (which +no man hath in a comely and decorous form); and last, not least, the +final blessing of terminating decorously in a tail.... Scarcely any man +stops to think of the many cares that weigh upon the back of an honest +horse. Dobbin knew all this, but was too much of a horse to dwell +on it. He kept his tongue well under his bit, his eyes in sagacious +blinkers, and sturdily up the hill he stepped, while Cripps, his +master, trudged beside him.” + +At the second page I was smiling outright, and knew that not a word of +this book would I knowingly skip. + +Such is the quality of the writing that not only do we learn to know +Zacchary Cripps and his brother Tickus (christened after the third +book of the “Pentachook,” as they called his sixth brother), his horse +Dobbin, and Mary Hookham, “as he was a tarnin’ over in his mind,” +together with Squire Oglander, Lawyer—or “Liar”—Sharp, as Zac addressed +him, “wishing to put all things legal,” Miranda his wife, and Kit his +son, as well as or better than we know our neighbours, but we are all +the time falling in love with that sly rogue, that mellow scholar, that +lover of a horse and a pretty girl, Richard Doddridge Blackmore. Here +is a man who knows and loves and smiles over the rustic mind and life, +as he knows and loves the trees, the hedges, the ruts, the sunlight, +and the frosts, and all the ways of Nature. He is leisurely, and you +must be leisurely with him. You must stop to see what he sees, and +accompany all his friends on their goings out and comings in, smiling +and enjoying with him. He cares more for the telling than for the +story; he knows, like Louis Stevenson, that “to travel hopefully is +better than to arrive.” + +Oxford and Oxfordshire are the scenes of the story, and we hear more +of town than gown, and more of Beckley than either. If the precise +critic ask whether it be a novel of character or of place or of plot, +the precise critic is a fool. There is the country, with its lanes and +hedges and changing seasons, and there are the people who carried and +delved and gossiped and wondered, sympathized with the trials of their +“betters,” and did their duty by parish church and parish “public,” +“same as Christians ought to.” And if you put it squarely to Squire (or +Parson?) Blackmore: “Come, now, you don’t expect me to believe that +Lawyer Sharp actually ... eh?” he will vouchsafe such a Philistine not +so much as a wink in reply, though you may catch a quizzical twinkle at +a generation too bald-minded to enjoy a hop field because the blossom +must be held up on poles. + +Blackmore, like Shakespeare, knows every turn of the bucolic’s slow, +sturdy, tortuous mind; he loved his pauses, the dawning of perception, +his easy missing of the point, his superstitions, and his common sense. +Read this (it comes in that passage where the escaping Grace Oglander +appeals to the Carrier to shelter her from pursuit in his van): + +“But missy, poor missy,” Cripps stammered out, drawing on his heart for +every word, “you was buried on the seventh day of January, in the year +of our Lord 1838; three pickaxes was broken over digging your grave +by reason of the frosty weather, and all of us come to your funeral! +Do ’ee go back, miss, that’s a dear! The churchyard to Beckley is a +comfortable place, and this here wood no place for a Christian.” + +And he can paint the brisk homely maids as well as the gaping +tongue-tied men. + +“Now, sir, if you please. You must—you must,” cried Mary Hookham, his +best maid, trotting in with her thumbs turned back from a right hot +dish, and her lips up as if she were longing to kiss him, to let out +her feelings.... “Sir, if you please, you must ate a bit.... ‘Take +on,’ as my mother has often said, ‘take on as you must, if your heart +is right, when the hand of the Lord is upon you; but never take off +with your victuals.’... All of us has our own troubles,” said Mary, +“but these here pickles is wonderful.” + +In the affectionate malice of the misadventures into which is plunged +Hardenow, that earnest, scholarly Tractarian, there is all the fun of +a man who is teasing a beloved and misguided friend. The muscles he is +so proud of shall be laughed at, into brambles he shall plunge, and +lose his hat and tear his neckcloth into ribbons; in a pig-net shall +he be caught, and his athletic legs having struck terror into the mind +of Rabbit John, bound with thongs shall he be, and left in an empty +pig-stye, the very parlour of pig-styes (“on the floor, where he had +the best of it, for odour ever rises”), there to continue his fast for +many hours. Pity him not overmuch; “his accustomed stomach but thinks +it Friday come again!” + +Aye, Blackmore knew man, and maid, and beast—even pig. Lying in this +plight, Hardenow sees: + +“... a loose board, lifted every now and then by the unringed snout +of a very good old sow. Pure curiosity was her motive, and no evil +appetite, as her eyes might tell. She had never seen a fellow and a +tutor of a college rolling, as she herself longed to do; and yet in +a comparatively clumsy way. She grunted deep disapprovement of his +movements, and was vexed that her instructions were so entirely thrown +away.” + +Here is a picture of a little child, seen through his hole by the +distracted tutor: + +“A little child toddled to the wicket gate and laid fat arms against +it, and laboured, with impatient grunts, to push it open.... He gazed +with his whole might at this little peg of a body, in the distance +toppling forward, and throwing out behind the whole weight of its great +efforts.... This little peg, now in battle with the gate, was a solid +Peg in earnest; a fine little Cripps, about five years old, as firm as +if just turned out of a churn. She was backward in speech, as all the +little Crippses are; and she rather stared forth her ideas than spoke +them. But still, let her once get a settlement concerning a thing that +must be done to carry out her own ideas, and in her face it might be +seen, once for all, that stop she never would till her own self had +done it.... + +“Taught by adversity (the gate had banged her chubby knees, etc.) +she did thus: Against the gatepost she settled her most substantial +availability, and exerted it, and spared not. Therewith she raised one +solid leg, and spread the naked foot thereof, while her lips were firm +as any toe of all the lot, against the vile thing that had knocked +her about, and the power that was contradicting her. Nothing could +withstand this fixed resolution of one of the far more resolute moiety +of humanity. With a creak of surrender the gate gave back; and out came +little Peggy Cripps, with a broad face glowing with triumph.” + +I have told you of Dobbin; I suppose I mustn’t detain you to hear +about Lawyer Sharp’s horse? “A better disposed horse was never +foaled; and possibly none—setting Dobbin aside, as the premier and +quite unapproachable type—who took a clearer view of his duties to +the provider of corn, hay, and straw, and was more ready to face and +undergo all proper responsibilities.... He cannot fairly be blamed, +and not a pound should be deducted from his warrantable value, simply +because he did what any other young horse in the world would have +thought to be right. He stared all round to ask what was coming next, +he tugged on the bridle, with his fore feet out, as a leverage against +injustice, and his hind legs spread wide apart, like a merry thought, +ready to hop anywhere.” Later he made for Oxford, “where he thought of +his oat sieve smelling sweetly, and nice little nibbles at his clover +hay, and the comfortable soothing of his creased places by a man who +would sing a tune to him.” + +One of the charms of the book is that it will make you a nuisance to +your family; there are so many pictures that you simply must read them, +so many phrases they must taste with you, and everything that you +do quote seems to be capped and improved upon by something a little +further on, and you simply must venture it. + +Not a thing does he miss, from ruts (oh, that pæan on ruts! “Everything +here was favourable to the very finest growth of ruts. The road had +once been made, which is a necessary condition of any masterpiece of +rut work; it had then been left to maintain itself, which encourages +wholesome development....”) to the effects of a hard frost, the borings +of the Sirex Gigas, and the tufted undergrad. who tools the “Flying +Dutchman” up the streets of Oxford. And nothing would we have him miss. + + +How can I let my dear friend Richard Blackmore, with his chuckling +gossip about Worth Oglander and Grace, Cripps, and the rustics of +Oxford and Beckley, fade out of memory on Petunia shelves? + + +The Hypnotist + +The Round of Gaiety continues. We have just lived through a Sunday +School anniversary (with tea meeting), a visit from _the_ hypnotist, +and the Show. + +The Hobbledehoy (latterly known as Hob) wrote that his father must go +to the hypnotic entertainment. He had been with some of the boys from +College, and the sight of a respectable schoolmaster under the delusion +that he was assisting at a dogfight left him without words to express +his joy. On hearing that our new man, Fat Bill Boundy, who has the face +of a natural comedian, meant to submit himself for experiment, Joshua +decided that a little amusement would cheer Marjorie up, and of course +he accompanied her. + +Admission turned out to be 2s. 4d. and 3s. 6d. + +“But the advertisement said ‘Popular Prices,’” protested Joshua. + +“That’s right,” agreed the ticket man, smoothly, “popular with the +entertainer.” + +Joshua says that this was the only joke of the evening. Bill Boundy +went up on to the platform all right, but the Great Man only made him +twiddle his fingers and roll his eyes. He said that on this occasion +he was “mesmerizing but not hypnotizing.” Joshua sat up half the night +with Jack’s Reference Book and the Encyclopædia Britannica, trying to +find out the difference. It appears that it consists in the size of the +town in which the performance is given. + + +Tin Lizzie + +Our minister bought a “Tin Lizzie”—at least, I’m afraid he passed it +off with the old, old joke, “We’ll have a Ford now, and a motor after +the war.” But Tin Lizzie worked harder than any horse, and our minister +was well satisfied—except when he forgot to water her, or crank her, or +in some way misunderstood her internal organs; and then he called her +“The Pesky Thing,” and even went so far as to say—I mean, of course, to +_think_—“Dash it.” + +But a time came when the Pesky Thing had to be cleaned, and +oiled, and crawled over, and squirmed under, and taken to pieces, +and—and—sermonized over. And our minister was a persevering man, and +so were his friends; and they talked and thought and read motors, and +captured the local mechanic and a passing amateur and an expert; and +finally they got her to go—a little way. Wherefore on Saturday night +the minister went to bed happy. + +But all the same he had a dream, a nightmare, a hair-raising, +heart-stopping nightmare. He dreamed that he was _walking_ to church +when he noticed his boots—and they were his motor-cleaning boots, +scraped on the heels and worn at the toes and cracked all over. But he +was not dismayed; the pulpit would hide them. + +And yet a little way, and lo, he had on his head the cap, the +greasy, poacher’s cap that protected his clerical hairs from the +motor-drippings. + +“But I can pocket my cap,” this imperturbable man comforted himself. + +And yet a little further, and it was his coat, his shapeless, sagging, +grimy motor-coat.... And now he really was put out, for, as he foresaw, + +“I shall have on those trousers in a few minutes!” + +And when at last he got to church the sense of doom was upon him, and +when he gave out the hymn the organ was out of order. + +And they took it to pieces, and cleaned it, and oiled it, and climbed +over it and crawled under it.... + +“Now I see that all things work together for good,” dreamed our +minister (he was ever an optimist), “_for I’ve got the right togs on +for the job_.” + + +The Show + +During the strike our railway supported only three trains a week; for +the Show it surpassed itself and ran three on one day, or, rather, two +and a dog-box. But they were all full, and I do think the crowd enjoyed +itself, or at any rate Marjorie’s prize cake and cream puffs, which +were carried off surreptitiously. Joshua says that the judging was +very unsatisfactory. His two-tooth did not get a prize. Marjorie, on +the other hand, considers that in the cooking and dairy sections the +most exemplary fairness was shown. + +In the general excitement of meeting Pete Wigglesby, whom we haven’t +seen for years, Joshua gave his order for a milking machine, although +the drought has set in again. Marjorie wishes he would want to show off +to some other old friend, and order a new house. “One without cement +floors, and with no step down into the kitchen,” she says, plaintively. +“And with a bathroom,” puts in Hob. + +Peterborough Show comes next, and I fancy our men will mob it. For one +thing, it is such a good opportunity to get their hair cut. You see, we +are short of barbers in Petunia, and any excursions are eagerly seized. +When the District Schools Picnic was held at Glenelg there were queues +outside the hairdressers there till late in the afternoon, and it was +considered that the managers of our fair made a great _coup_ when they +ran a saloon as a sideshow. By the end of the evening Dicky Conlon +was getting to be quite an expert hair-cutter. There was a little +disturbance when Joe Wickhams saw himself in the glass, but Constable +Merritt knocked the razor out of his hand and pulled him off Dicky. +After that it was all right, because some one had the presence of mind +to take away the mirror. + + +The Haircut + +Joshua couldn’t go to Peterborough Show after all, and his hair was +awful. Marjorie “could not foresee to what lengths it would go,” and +advised him to wear it in curling-pins. Joshua begged her to try what +she could do with a basin, and finally persuaded her to take a comb and +scissors and “put the reaper into the crop.” Of course, the machine had +to go over it several times, but at last only the stubble remained. She +had some difficulty in getting the furrows on one side to meet those on +the other, but finally the terrace effect was complete. Windy corner, +where the roads meet on top, was a difficult point to negotiate, and +Vimy Ridge took some levelling. The razor-work was particularly fine, +and Joshua deserves the V.C. Marjorie was rather dashed by her failure +to sell him a bottle of hair-restorer; she urged that it might help +check the growth. + + +Scipio + +Daisy is still after a pet whose usefulness she can justify as a +potential mouse-catcher, but our disappointment with the Duchess has +made us humbler and more discreet. This time we asked a neighbour for +the gift of his apparently superfluous black kitten. + +“’Taint mine,” said he; “it belongs to my old Nosey. She had it in the +haystack, and I have never been able to catch it to drown it. If you +can get it you can have it.” + +“We shan’t find any difficulty with Scipio,” exulted the Hobbledehoy, +home for “month out,” “because no one has been feeding him.” + +“Scipio?” I asked. + +“The black kitten,” he explained. “What they used to call the little +niggers. Good name for a gutter-snipe.” + +Well, we certainly have no difficulty in getting Scipio into the +neighbourhood of nourishment. He (and Nosey his mother, and Miss +Perkins his aunt, and the Yellow Peril from up the road) will scud +across two paddocks at the sound of our call. At twenty paces, however, +Scipio becomes coy. He rubs himself ingratiatingly against his mother, +he sniffs towards the food, but won’t be wheedled. He may daringly +sneak up within six feet to snatch a piece of meat, but he runs off +again growling and sticks a paw on it, and turns his eyes towards us, +flattening his ears while he eats. By the exercise of great patience +and by throwing bits of meat at lessening distances he has even learned +to snatch the meat from Daisy’s hand, to eat it without moving far, +to—no, not to be stroked! At the first touch on his fur he darts to +the gate, brings up, turns round, a little ashamed of his fright as +he hears Daisy’s cooing voice—or, perhaps, still a little hungry!—and +stands ready for flight, his tail gallantly up, though, and twitching +his muscles confidingly, so that the fur ripples up and down his back +in the sunlight. He fixes us with his blue eyes, that are already +turning green at the edges, starts forward, checks—and that is as far +as we can get with the adopting of Scipio. Poor little gutter-snipe! +We shall never tame him. He can’t believe in human kindness. The only +love he trusts is the warm touch of his mother, and she will cast him +off soon, and his kittenhood will be over. Scipio will live as he can +on pickings from rubbish heaps and mice in the haystacks and birds in +the hedge. But it is Daisy who will be unhappy about it, not Scipio! +Luckily, cats are not introspective. + + +Bill Boundy + +Have I told you about our Bill Boundy? I have a rooted conviction that +for a good many people music is simply a noise that they hope will soon +stop. The reason why people will hardly ever confess to being unmusical +is probably Shakespeare’s unfortunate remark: + + “The man that hath no music in himself, + Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, + Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.” + +To me it seems very hard that people should be under a cloud simply +because of some defect in their organs of Corti, or some other part of +the physical apparatus for hearing the exquisiteness of tune in sound. +However, Bill Boundy is undoubtedly musical. He could lean against the +wall all day listening to Hob practising. “It makes the skin of my head +run tight,” he says, ecstatically and in apology, when Joshua motions +him stablewards. + +Bill is a treasure. I hope Joshua will never sack him irrevocably. He +had “a week home to Munta” for Christmas, and is simply bursting with +conversation. Most of his anecdotes turn upon his mother, a salty old +Cornishwoman. She is a pensioner, but quite properly expects as much +courtesy from the officials as if she were any other member of the +public. + +“I be waiting, my son,” was her gentle reminder through the post office +window to the negligent back of “some young Jack-a-napes.” The new +clerk took no notice. + +“Didn’t ’ee hear, son? I be standing.” + +“No son of yours,” snapped the sensitive youth. + +“Must be somebody’s son,” urged the old lady, calmly, “unless ’ee come +out of incubator.” + +Jack-in-Office is now quite briskly attentive to Bill Boundy’s mother. + +Bill is filled with admiration and a little malice because John Thomas +Trellagan’s boy has just qualified as a doctor. + +“Fair set up about it, John Tummas be. ‘Rayther young, John,’ says I. +‘Shouldn’t like him monkeying with my innards, ’a believe.’ ‘Aw,’ says +John Tummas, a terrible obliging man, ‘they only practise on quite +young children at first, ’a believe.’” + +Joshua says Bill is “an ingratiating beggar.” Relations were strained +because Bill hadn’t got the milking machine clean in time, but while +they speeded up Bill wheedled Joshua into a good temper. He told him +another story of John Tummas Trellagan’s boy. He has had his first +maternity case. The mother and child are in a bad way, says Bill, but +Clarence still hopes to save the father. + +Bill always knows all that goes on in the township. Now that paper and +string cost so much those who forget to take a cloth for their bread +have to pay a halfpenny extra. Bill was there when the butcher took +his revenge by charging the baker’s little messenger for the paper he +wrapped the dog’s meat in. Thank goodness, everyone in Petunia can take +a joke. + + +An Angry Man + +I had chosen “Mary Barton” because Mrs. Gaskell wrote it, and “Joan +and Peter” because no blue stocking with a care for her reputation +can afford to admit ignorance of whatever book happens to be Wells’s +penultimate, (or at any rate ante-penultimate), and I felt that I +deserved some champagne after this solid-looking fare. I looked round +the shelves gloomily, despairing of finding anything frivolous +in the scanty stock from which in Petunia we draw for our week’s +entertainment. “Pickwick Papers”—delightful, but too old a friend. +“Three Men in a Boat”—also past its first youth. “Galahad Jones”—the +very best of its kind, but then we only returned it last week. +“Fatima”—um-m. Well, it had the plain cover of a self-respecting +publisher; good print, plenty of conversation, titled folk, a yacht. It +sounded frivolous enough. I took it. + +I do not regret my choice, though my pleasure was scarcely due to +the writer. There is no need to tell you the story. It was about a +French-Arabian young lady dressed in a burnous (yes!) and coins, who +married a tuberculous Scotch peer, and fell out with a deep-dyed +villain (also of the peerage), and loved a doctor, the Bayard of his +profession and the saintliest scientist who ever fell into the devilish +hands of Arabian bandits agitating (apparently) for the eight hour day, +only to be rescued by the lady in the burnous. No, the fun was not in +the story, entertaining as its author’s luxurious enjoyment of herself +undoubtedly was; the fun was entirely due to reading in the wake of an +angry man with a pencil, who took the whole thing seriously. + +He began on the first page. “A baronet would not be called ‘Lord,’” +he reproves mildly. You could see his feeling; purely irritation with +the printers. But as the story progressed it became clear that it was +not the compositor who was at fault. “The authoress evidently does not +understand titles,” he snarls. “Earl Harben would not be referred to as +‘Lord Eric.’” He slashes his pencil through “the Lady Eric,” and bang +goes “her grace.” Fury nearly obliterates the “gh” in “straightened +circumstances.” Next he reasons with the misguided person who has been +adjudged worthy of the dignity of print (my own idea is that a doting +husband paid for the whole thing himself). “Not a burgomaster _and_ +a maire,” he pleads; “not in the same town. One is German, the other +French.” Other anomalies he passes with a mere flick of the pencil, +an exasperated sniff, as it were. I stuck to the yarn solely for the +pleasure of savouring his hot fury, his cold despair, his pleading, his +rage. + +“The Presbyterians”—the infuriated man nearly dug through the page—“do +not pray for the dead.” + +And then came the (for me) sad page whereafter comment ceased. He had +pounced on an exotic phrase. + +“Pure Yankee!” he exclaims, triumphantly, and all is forgiven. I parted +from him with sorrow. + +His conclusion was wrong, of course, as I could prove if I met him. No +one ought to accuse an American woman of not understanding the British +peerage! + + +Alcibiades + +The pet problem is solved! A chum has presented Hob with a small black +pup, and, as Hob found to his disgust that even Prefects can’t keep +dogs at school, he brought him home at the Michaelmas holidays. + +“What is his name?” demanded Daisy. + +“The Dam Dog,” replied Hob. + +“What!” ejaculated Marjorie. + +“The Dam Dog. Oh, it’s all right, mother. It means ‘dog that washes in +a dam.’ D.A.M., you know.” + +“Thank you, Hob. I know you go to college, but I can spell ‘dam’ +myself—both ways. You must find some other name for your dog.” + +The little fellow kept us all awake the night Hob left, and Joshua +remarked in the morning that he thought Marjorie might now be more +willing to let the name stand. However, Hob wrote to say that he had +decided upon Alcibiades. + +This time it was Joshua who put his foot down. He said that, if ever +the time should come (which he doubted) when the dog was useful +with sheep he was not going to make a fool of himself by shouting +“Alcibiades.” + +So now “his name is Alcibiades,” as Daisy explains, “but we call him +Peter.” + +Peter is a lovable little chap. He barks, prances, pounces, worries, +with all the energy possible to a little barrel-shaped body that +has only just ceased to wobble when it walks. Yesterday the +police-constable called with news of our missing cow. Peter took the +opportunity to bite his trousers and pull his boot laces, and then +rolled over and over in an ecstacy of self-importance. + + +News + +Don’t apologize for sending “no news, only views, blended with a cold +in the head.” I never can see why letters should be newsy. + +“There is nothing to write about; I am not doing anything,” people say. +But if they are not doing they are thinking, and our thoughts are often +more interesting to our friends than events, which very likely have +little connection with ourselves at all. I’ve an idea that the best +correspondents, like the best essay writers, are the egoists. + +I am not one of the best letter-writers, however. In fact, I feel +distinctly newsy. There is always something going on in Petunia. For +instance, some more of our boys have returned from the war. We were +pleased! A turkey was dressed in honour of one, and then the date of +arrival was several times postponed. The problem of problems is—how +long will a turkey keep even in (home-made) cold storage this weather? +Any little unusual smell was greeted anxiously with, “I hope that isn’t +the turkey!” + +Twocott gave a strawberry fête and magic lantern in honour of its +soldiers, only the strawberries didn’t come, and the lantern was +missing. Still, the evening was a great success; there was so much more +time to talk and play. + +But the policeman’s wife has had the most excitement. Her husband was +away, and she was awakened by strange noises. At first she thought +it was smothered laughter, and then she thought it was curses (not +smothered); presently there was a crash and a groan. In the shadow of +the lane opposite a writhing mass of men bore something stealthily +into the darkness. Our policeman’s wife is a heroine. She resolved not +to desert the children, and buried her head in the bedclothes. In the +morning Mrs. Odgers, coming over to borrow some dripping, was full of +the kindness of the men who had moved the piano into her new house on +their way home from the political meeting at Buxton. + + +Amusing Daisy + +I do wish all girls took a course of home nursing. I’ve been nursing +Daisy with one hand and reading up the subject with the other, so to +speak. I can now sponge the patient with almost no exertion to her and +without letting her get cold, at least, not very; and I can change the +sheets without moving her from the bed. When Daisy gets better perhaps +Marjorie or Joshua will give me a turn, just so that I can perfect my +art. Daisy liked the cap I wore to protect my hair; it decided her +to be a nurse herself some day. But the best subject for amusing the +restless little soul was Peter—well, then, Alcibiades. I told Joshua +about the beautiful echo that would reverberate “over the downs” if he +called “Alcibiades,” but he said life was too short for elocutionary +exercises while you round up sheep. “You mean your temper is too +short,” observed Marjorie very justly. + +Of course, I couldn’t have Peter in the room catching scarlatina and +spreading infection, but Daisy was never tired of hearing about him. We +country people don’t keep our animals in the Zoo and visit them once a +year. They are part of our life, and we talk about them accordingly. +Dobbin, now—but I suppose I mustn’t? Well, well, to return to Peter. +Sometimes he would stand on a bench under the window and put his paws +on the sill, eagerly looking in with his bright black eyes, his ears +pricked, his ecstatic tail hopefully suggesting a walk. And then bones. +He loves bones, nice old gamey ones, disinterred with excitement and +later buried again with earnest care. The ambition of his heart is +to gnaw them inside. He prances in proudly, tail up, head up, bone +on one side, and then at the reprimand, the transparent bubble of +his innocence pricked, he turns round (laughing, doubtless, at his +discomfiture), and makes for his mat—when he doesn’t defy you from +under the table. And to see him tugging at an apron-string, legs set, +eyes bulging! + +“What else does he do?” enquires Daisy solemnly. I can’t think of +anything else, and I say lamely: + +“Well, once he barked at a beetle.” + + +Obiit + +Peter is dead. + +Daisy is inconsolable. He was such an engaging little fellow. + +He was the only dog that Marjorie ever allowed inside. + +He is buried under the apple tree where he used to forage so busily for +bones. + + +The Drought + +Last birthday Hob got a rather special penknife. This disposed him to +be generous with his third and oldest. + +“If I give you this,” he meditated to little Allen from next door, “I +suppose you will cut yourself with it?” + +“I wouldn’t,” protested Allen. Hob gave it to him. Last week when Daisy +and I were going to the library Allen came prancing up to us. + +“I’ve got a cut finger,” he exclaimed, triumphantly. Then, suddenly +remembering, “But I didn’t do it with Hob’s knife.” He danced backward +on his toes so as to face us as we walked on. + +“I’ve been to town,” offered Daisy. + +“See the aererplane? See the Cave? See Father Christmas?” he demanded. + +“Yes,” bragged Daisy. + +“I ain’t,” said Allen, wistfully. + +And the harvest is so scanty that Father Christmas will have to be +very frugal if he is to come at all to the homes of some working men. +Petunia looks very sad, bare and brown and dusty. The sparrows hop +about with parched open beaks, waiting their turn when the tap drips, +and on Sundays the dejected draught horses stand about in the trampled +dust while the hot wind soughs through the stunted shrubs, and the sun +blazes on bare paddocks, and shimmers on the iron roofs. In winter it +is different. The light shines clearly on gay green crops and whitens +the curving blades, and the horses mosey companionably along the +roadsides, nibbling the grass, twitching humorous nostrils, gambolling +clumsily and shaking their bell-bottomed pasterns, screaming with +laughter when sportively bitten by a friend. Oh, man and beast love +Petunia in winter! But droughts really ought not to be allowed. It is +moving to think of ill-fed cattle and disheartened workers. + + “Then welcome each rebuff + That turns earth’s smoothness rough, + Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go,” + +writes Browning. In the good seasons I find this advice inspiring. When +the rebuff begins it seems less so. And when one thinks of the returned +soldiers who are only getting three bushels to the acre (not even +enough for seed!) one remembers with tears that it is easier to die for +a country than to live for it. “Beginning again” after the years at +the war takes resolution and courage, the willingness to take risks, +and the patience not to take them hastily, that are as true tests of +manhood as any they had abroad. + + + + +The Works of Simple Simon, LL.D., D.Litt., Ph.D., M.B., B.S. + + +An Emendation + +Amid the welter of possible misprints in such writers as Shakespeare, +Shelley, and Coleridge, one obvious correction would appear to have +been overlooked. + + “Pussycat, Pussycat, where have you been? + I’ve been to London to look at the Queen. + Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there? + I frightened a little mouse under her chair.” + +So runs one of the earliest-known (to me) and best-loved poems. + +But is it credible that the romantic young cat who trimmed his fur and +hoisted his tail and fared forth to catch a glimpse of Majesty would +create a vulgar scene in that adored presence? Is it credible that, +returning, he should boast of his boorishness, like a gutter-snipe +making a _pied de nez_? Nor can I think that what he saw at Court +turned our gallant to a cynic, coarsely sniggering out his disillusion. +No, I prefer to believe that a pedantic regard for mechanical accuracy +of metre has caused the printer to err. For “frightened” I believe we +should read “caught.” + + “I _caught_ a little mouse under her chair.” + +The astonishing thing is that no previous editor seems to have thought +of this. Of course, there will be some dissenters. + +“What!” will exclaim the upholder of things as they are, instead of as +they might so much better be, “Would you have us sentimentalize the +cat, and by pathetic fallacy pretend that the young prig thought to +‘serve his Queen’?” + +“Not at all,” I reply. I will tell you my idea. Having stepped softly +and daintily into the presence and slipped behind the tapestry and out +again near the throne, he gazed adoringly at the lovely Queen, at her +soft hair under the crown, at her rosy fingers, her silk-clad knee, the +graceful brocaded train with which his pussy-humour longed to play. And +then his eyes, big and black with the unaccustomed splendour, suddenly +espied the natural, homely mouse licking his whiskers impudently in +the fancied security of the royal throne. Pussycat was shocked and +interested (like a little boy with a dog in church), and he watched +and watched till he was all pussy, till the Court faded and Pussycat’s +strategic eye made him pounce before he thought. + +And when the Ladies-in-Waiting fainted because they dared not scream, +and the Gentlemen-in-Waiting dashed forward because they thought +Pussycat might scrunch the mouse under the royal chair, Pussycat laid +back his ears and darted his eyes defensively, and with a laughing +growl laid it at the Queen’s own feet. + +And so when, safe back at home over a saucer of milk, Pussycat told a +reproachful little boy where he had been, and the little boy screamed +with delight, + + “Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there?” + +Pussycat, hugging himself for his naughty boldness, and smiling to +think how the Queen had smiled, and vastly enjoying the sensation he +was making, burst out with his answer (and that is the meaning of the +irregular metre, the long pause and stress): + + “I _caught_ a little mouse under her chair!” + + +A Protest + +I have long regretted the publicity accorded to the pieman +incident—solely on the pieman’s account. + + “Simple Simon met a pieman, + Going to the fair.” + +Our family has always been noted for its straightforward simplicity. I +was hungry, I was curious in pie-lore, and I made the request which I +conceive any youth, bred to gracious treatment, would have made. + + “Said Simple Simon to the pieman, + Let me taste your ware.” + +So might the Prince of Wales himself have spoken. O, sordid, oh +mercenary pieman! Where was thy pride of bakery, where thy manners? +Thou did’st neither feed the hungry nor wait with honest pride a meed +of praise. Thine not the artist soul, thine not the joy of giving; +thine, alas! but lust of pelf. What does the paltry fellow reply? + + “Said the pieman to Simple Simon, + Show me first your penny.” + +With sorrow and scorn I gave answer candidly: + + “Said Simple Simon to the pieman, + For sure I haven’t any.” + +My simple dignity speaks for itself. A more sophisticated youth would +have demanded the production of the hawker’s licence. + + +A “Lancet” Article + +A subject on which I have several times reflected is tuberculosis, and +I believe that I can cure it. An account of my method and of how I hit +upon it will doubtless gratify my readers. + +I have always held that Nature’s avenue of healing is the lips. In my +youth I studied physics, and passed the Senior—or was it the Junior? +Anyway, the idea came to me of disintegrating the molecules of which +the bacillus or germ is composed. To be precise, I meant to grab the +nitrogen out of them. Unfortunately, I recollected that there is +nitrogen in the tissues as well, and I did not feel certain that I +could disintegrate one without the other. + +My present device is strictly scientific. Beginning with the principle +that cure is to be through the lips, and that the goal is to be the +elimination of the bacilli, I asked myself how they could be extracted. +Not with forceps, that was clear. Then, in the course of my extensive +reading I was much struck in “The English at the North Pole,” with +the adhesion of nails, knives, and other steel and iron ware to the +magnetic pole. “What,” thought I to myself, “if I were to magnetize +the bacilli?” Of course, the tubercle bacilli contain no iron, but +iron can be taken through the lips, and some of it would roost on the +germs in passing. I followed this procedure, and then, having opened +the patient’s mouth to its fullest extent, dangled a magnet down the +throat. On withdrawing the instrument it was found that 149,563,769 +tubercles, or more than can dance on the point of a needle, adhered +to it. No other treatment is necessary, though the operation needs to +be performed daily (at a fee of £10 10s. per time) for twelve months. +The operator should wear a mask, and should boil his face and hands +thoroughly after each operation. + +At the end of this time the patient will be in a very different +condition from what he was before. + +I tried this treatment on T.B. He was 96 years old, with a previous +history of fractured skull and varicose veins. The epidermis of his +nose was found to be a good deal reddened. I administered three ounces +of iron, and applied the magnet. The operation was entirely successful. +There is no prognosis, because the patient choked. Through what? +_Through the flocking of the germs to the magnet._ This proves that +the dose of iron was too strong. Care must be taken to prevent the +magnetization of too many bacilli at the same operation. + +I confidently look forward to receiving large sums for this treatment, +especially if well-advertised in gullible quarters. + + +An Application of Psychology to Medicine + +The insistent demands of Psychology (too long regarded with jealousy) +to be called in to the aid of Medicine have at length been recognized. +_In corpore sano_ is an easy matter compared with _mens sana_. The +medical man soon learns to prescribe his nostrums, and to draw up a +diet which shall suit the palate of his patient; the very skilled can +even hit upon the exact vintage which shall be most acceptable. The +mentality is also diagnosed with as much insight as can be expected; +but now the treatment is less easy to decide. The book-list proves +harder than the wine-list, for here the doctor is on less familiar +ground. It is at this point that the psychologist’s work is of value. +Disciples of Æsculapius will be glad to receive the following typical +book-list communicated to us by a rising young physician of South +Australia (a remote province of our Empire in the outlying parts of the +Southern Hemisphere) who has used it with success. + +First week of treatment.—Letting the mind down gently. Works by Ethel +Dell, Gertrude Page. + +Second week.—Mind to be lulled. “Just David,” “Pollyanna.” (In very +obstinate cases, _e.g._, returned soldiers, “Jessica’s First Prayer” +and “Eric, or Little by Little” may be added.) + +Third week.—Stage of acute self-pity, to be discharged by weeping over +woes of others. The “Elsie” books, “The Wide, Wide, World.” Confessions +(anybody’s). + +Fourth week.—Patient needs rousing. This is a very critical period, and +the psychosis of the individual must be carefully studied. No general +prescription can be given, but the following suggestions are made: +For elderly Methodist spinster, Victoria Cross novel (preferably that +alleged to have set a bookstall alight); jaded divorcé (or divorcée), +“Golden Heart Novelettes”; case of delirium tremens, _Patriot_, or +other temperance organ. President of the Liberal Union: “_Direct +Action_,” “Sabotage.” (If these fail, get him to make up his income-tax +return.) Member of the I.W.W.: Probate lists; failing these, the +speeches of Irvine and Hughes will be found efficacious. Doctor +(difficult case, especially at night): works of Mrs. Baker-Eddy, or the +present article. + +Fifth week.—Patient annoyed to hear he is looking better. Mild case: +Emerson’s Essays (one to be taken after each meal). Obstinate case: +Degree 1, the Bible; degree 2 (probably a lodge patient), advise to +make peace with God, and send for a clergyman. + +Sixth week.—Patient returns to his wallowing: Hegel or Bertrand +Russell; Thompson or Lodge, and “Science from an Easy Chair”; +“Structure and Growth” or “Psychology for Little Tots”; Wells or +Charles Garvice; _London Punch_ or _The Pink ’Un_; “Horner’s Penny +Stories” and the _Sunday Circle_; all according to taste. + + +Our National Bulletin + +At Fremantle the observant academic on his travels to the Antipodes +notes the rush of his Australian fellow-passengers for a large, bright +pink compendium. “Ah!” he thinks to himself, “that national paper of +theirs!” and at the first opportunity he purchases a copy in order to +study the manners and customs of the inhabitants. + +“Bai Jove!” he gasps weakly, as he opens on a huge and brutal Norman +Lindsay cartoon, a quite unnecessarily unpleasant sketch by Mack or +Souter, or (as _The Bulletin_ itself might say) at the allegedly +humorous caricatures of “Poverty Point,” or “Sundry Shows.” On the Red +Page he is upset to find Looney’s Shakespeare theory taken seriously, +the sacred laws of punctuation explicitly and at length, but without +explanation, denied, and (in “A Satchel of Books”) a snub administered +to E. V. Lucas, while space is devoted to analysis and appreciation +of some unheard-of Australian writer. He considers the tone of the +Society gossip columns “most regrettable” (“vulgar” is his word if +no Australian is in earshot), and when he turns to Aboriginalities +for local colour, his refined literary palate is outraged at the—the +travesty on the English language which he finds. There is perhaps +the story of an egg-stealing crow, “whose black nibs” carries away +“bunches” of “this fruit.” And the whole paper is like that! Even +“Plain English!” From the number of abuses attacked, in provocative +captions like “Australia for the Asiatics,” “Murder at £4 11s. 3d. a +Time,” it appears that nothing, except perhaps an occasional piece of +work by a _Bulletin_ young man, goes right in Australia. Unless our +academic is a brave man, with sound missionary instincts, he writes +at once to resign his appointment. He really must refuse to herd with +these callow vulgarians. + +Is _The Bulletin_ really characteristic of Australia? In the long run, +and with modifications, yes. It is the one paper which every good +Australian, at home or abroad, reads, and reads with gusto. It contains +argument, comment, or anecdote about nearly every subject on which +the Australian is interested. Its opinion may be wrong and its manner +blatant, but there is never any doubt that it has an opinion, and it +is never dull for a single sentence. But it is surely the _reductio +ad absurdum_ of some, as well as the highest power of other, of our +characteristics. Like the comic writers of the eighteenth century, +it holds the mirror up to nature—Australian nature—and its mirror is +always unsentimental and sometimes distorting. + +Young nations are self-confident—and so is _The Bulletin_; +self-confident and bumptious and cock-sure. The Cheerful Cherub must +certainly have had this paper in mind when he wrote: + + I always envy editors + With minds both deep and bright; + They always feel so positive + That what they think is right. + +Whatever the subject, when the hail of argument ceases, the pulverized +reader wonders why he had not agreed to this before; or, if he still +has a doubt or objection, he keeps it to himself, because obviously +it is all his foolishness. Indeed that is _The Bulletin_ attitude +in every subject and in every paragraph. “It am It, and the other +fellow is a fool, most probably a damned fool.” _The Bulletin_ really +has convictions, too; its violence isn’t entirely explained, as the +psycho-analysts explain swearing, as an attempt to make up for the +defects of genius by the violence of style. No, _The Bulletin_ knows +its happy-go-to-football-match average Australian; it is perfectly +aware that to make him listen to reason you must (and this is the +reason both for our yellow press and our stump oratory) hold him by +the scruff of the neck while you shout your lesson in his ear. And so +_The Bulletin_ hits you in the eye with its red cover, and, having +caught your attention, rapidly emits a brisk succession of crisp +ideas, conveyed in a style of studied unexpectedness. It is terse and +trenchant and clear, though no one could call it nervous or sympathetic +or scholarly or refined. Those responsible have had extraordinary +success in achieving uniformity of manner through all their many +regular and paragraph writers. The essentials are something to say +(captious for preference), and trenchancy in saying it. Probably in no +other paper of its size are there fewer tiresome circumlocutions. Even +Death is briskly handled. “Died last week ...” begins the paragraph. +_De mortuis_, too, not _nil nisi bonum_, but whatever you like. _The +Bulletin_ doesn’t think much of classical learning, and perhaps it has +thrown a courteous precept or two overboard at the same time. + +But the paper has a code of its own, an air of sea-green +incorruptibility and impartiality, and a fearlessness in defying the +conventional, which, even if it is sometimes only the aggressiveness +of crudity, makes its value more than that of a _succès de scandale_. +Politically it stands for two or three principles, which are rooted +(and which it assisted to root) in Australian conviction, and for two +or three others which will probably become so. It stands for a White +Australia and Protection and Self-Defence; it is anti-Imperial and +anti-Party and anti-Hughes, but no one can doubt that it is always +and wholly pro-Australian. It is the critic of all parties, with an +opinion as far removed from stick-in-the-mud Liberalism as it is from +the Party that Declines to Work. Its treatment of Royalty is probably +characteristic of the bulk of Australians. It wishes us to understand +that it holds no brief for Royalty, but that it likes and respects +“the Princelet” for himself, and wishes it could rescue him from the +pitiful efforts at entertainment of the vulgar Sassiety and official +classes. “Refer to us for information on Teddy’s tastes. Young Windsor +and we are pals,” it rather patronizingly suggests. Imagine H.R.H. +having a _Bulletin_ and Bohemian good time with Harrison O. and Henry +Horsecollar and Pat O’Maori and the rest! (Though occasionally one +wonders whether they live in so hectic a Bohemia as they would have us +believe.) For the pompous and the stupid they have no pity; to Gaud +Mayors and Gaud Mayoresses and Gent Helps they mete out treatment +savage or contemptuous, according to the degree of offence. Pitiless +publicity and offensive epithet are _The Bulletin’s_ ungenerous +treatment of inexperience and human weakness alike with incompetence +and considered roguery and political opposition. + +The aspiring Australian inevitably submits his literary productions to +_The Bulletin_. Its frank and wholesome judgments are what he wants. +Its reviews of literary works are in accordance with the best typically +Australian opinion, though in its admiration for the vigorous and the +original and the characteristic it fails to appreciate some of the +fundamentally sound and admirable achievement which the conventional +often represents. The sound discipline it imposes upon writers of +verse is in striking contrast with this. In prose, too, of course, +it insists on grammatical English, but scholarship, and much that +scholarship implies, are alien to _The Bulletin_ (and to the young +Australian?) temperament. It is so much easier and more flattering +to ignorance to assume that mere common-sense can take precedence of +intelligence which is instructed and disciplined. In noticing a work on +sociology, ostentatiously to give its author—and one so well known—as +“a” Professor J. J. Findlay, is a perverse and provincial parade of +ignorance and detachment which discredit the writer. A reviewer should +at least know the literature and personnel of his subject. + +_The Bulletin_ is full of energy and character and youth. Like youth, +in its horror of being Wowserish it assumes a bold bad air, but +fundamentally it has the wholesomeness as well as the intolerance of +youth. With the passage of years perhaps its intolerance and its slang +will wear off together, for most of us do not want to see the rise of +a mongrel Australian tongue akin to the worst kind of Americanese. +It deals with everything from sport to business, from literature to +politics, and all with an absence of qualm as to its ability that of +itself inspires confidence. That it excludes certain types of writer +is no reproach, for unity requires selection. Despite the following +imaginary list, the present writer is graciously pleased to admit that +he for one would not like to do without his weekly _Bulletin_. + + +ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. + + Elia: Using “Roast Pig”; returning “Dream Children” and “Poor + Relations” for decent burial.... R.L.S.: Yarn has the right stuff in + it. Keep on.... “Paradise Lost”: Send a couple of bullock drays for + the M.S. What’s it all about, anyway?... Walt Whitman: You can’t get + away with that verse, not in this paper.... A.A.M.: Joke feeble. You + might try it on London _Punch_.... Alice Meynell: What do we care + about your blooming kids?... Sage of Chelsea: Got a grouch about + something, haven’t you? Work it off on the woodheap.... Walter Pater: + Take it away.... Robert B.: Just misses being a shocking example.... + Bagehot: Laodicean stuff not in our line. For Gawsake lose your temper + sometimes.... Bernard Partridge: Drawing accurate, but not enough kick + in the figures. So the holy lady with the wings is Peace, is she?... + W.W.: + + “A primrose by the river’s brim, + A simple primrose was to him, + And it was nothing more.” + + Beats us what more it ought to have been—two primroses? Our Temperance + Editor protests. + + +Nigger + + +I. + +Master was away all the afternoon; it was very dull. He did not come +back in the evening. Nigger was uneasy. Once during the night he +slipped his chain and went in search. + +“Perhaps he’ll be in when I get back,” he thought hopefully. + +And later: “He’s sure to be here for breakfast.” + +But he wasn’t. + +Nigger searched every room and sniffed the furniture. No master. +Nigger was lonely. He cuddled up on the forbidden cushions of the +garden-seat with Simonette, waiting for master to come whizzing round +the corner. He opened an eye at a noisy cycle, and cocked his ear for +a motor. He trotted up the drive, he wheeled sharply round to the +stables, he cut back, barking, to master’s room. No master. + +After a little dejected self-examination Nigger paid a rapid visit to +several rabbit-holes. Whatever the strain, duty must be done. He came +back to be comforted. + +“I know,” he yapped joyously, “he’s afraid to come home; he’s hiding +behind a tree.” + +But he wasn’t. + +“Then I darn well hope,” snapped Nigger, “that they’ll shut him up for +a day when he does turn up.” He sighed heavily. + +But they didn’t. They shut Nigger up instead. + + +II. + +The sun shone on the pale sodden summer grass, and the raindrops on the +trees glistened. The clouds were rolling back over the plain and the +sea. Nigger wanted a walk. He danced down the drive, and looked back to +see if anyone were following. No one. Nigger wagged his tail and tried +again. The invitation was ignored. Nigger drooped his tail (what there +was of it) and came back. + +Simonette got her coat; Nigger wagged; an umbrella; Nigger sprang into +the air and spun round and round and barked. Simonette would indicate +the general direction of the walk, and he, Nigger, could introduce all +the variety. Simonette went over the hill; so did Nigger—and right and +left, too; he knew all the _best_ rabbit-holes. + +But Simonette heard him tell little kennel-bound Kiwi, “Oh, just a +middling walk. Better than nothing, of course. But if only a man had +been here...!” + +And since master came back Nigger hasn’t even spoken to Simonette. + + + + +Miscellaneous + + +The Queen City of the South + +Writers about the Old World can take so much for granted. Even the +Colonial knows what to expect when the scene is laid in Tooting, +Maida Vale, or the _Boul’ Mich’_. He is intimate with some of the +geographical details, and with the social atmosphere of very different +parts of London and Paris. Regent Street, Clapham Junction, and the +Edgeware Road are as atmospheric for him as the Domain and Toorak. +The writer of the New World has no such advantage. He cannot be +certain that even the names of his capital cities will be recognized, +and he knows that few readers abroad (abroad, for him, is the +Northern Hemisphere) will care to learn even the general outlines +of God-knows-what insignificant citylet. Yet Australian States and +cities, nay, the very suburbs, are almost as broadly distinct and as +superficially varied as anything in the Old World, even though they are +not as mellow or as complex; and our citizens are as much moulded by +their surroundings. + +Some years ago Foster Fraser tried to help us out as he whizzed through +each capital. Thus he labelled Sydney “for pleasure,” Melbourne “for +business,” and Adelaide “for culture.” But Adelaide is the only city +that is satisfied with his judgment. All six capitals bridle with +pleasure when “the Queen City of the South” is mentioned, which, as any +South Australian will tell you, is absurd; every unbiassed person knows +that the phrase is only a descriptive variant for Adelaide. + +The only superiority freely accorded to Adelaide by her sister cities +is that of piety. The reason is partly the number of her churches, but +far more, I think, a malicious disinclination to let drop the legend +of our mayor who veiled with decent calico our Venus and our Hercules. +Some of our many later statues more rightly bring a blush to the +aesthetic cheek of the young person, but not, alas, because they are +unclad. + +South Australia is a long, narrow State running down the middle of +the continent from the centre to the sea, from which, and her port, +Adelaide is not seven miles distant. The cattle tracks of the dry, hot +(and cold) Far North, and all the railways through the wheat and sheep +and copper areas, and all good roads everywhere, lead towards Adelaide. +That Queen City herself lies like a jewel on the broad and beautiful +plain, in the bend of the arm of hills which sweep inland from the +shore. The heart of it is a square mile of broad streets intersecting +at right angles, bound by gardened terraces, and secured from the rough +jostling and elbowing of the suburbs by broad belts of park land sacred +to browsing cows and horses, cricket, tennis, football, and bowls. East +Terrace has specialized in markets, for it lies nearest the hills and +the vegetable gardens; West Terrace faces the monuments and the sad +little mounds of a cemetery. Within these confines are five tree-shaded +lawns where children may play, and seats for those who choose to watch +the gay flower-beds. To the south are crowded streets and populous +lanes, lined mainly with dwellings; to the middle and north business +has developed. + +Three or four shopping streets for womenkind, ten or twelve streets +of offices for men, and some of warehouses and factories, are so far +enough for this hub of the State. King William Street bisects it from +north to south, lined with banks and shops and huge hotels (huge for +us, you know), and cutting it at right angles is Rundle Street, a +kind of Drapers’ Row. Next to Rundle Street, and parallel with it, is +North Terrace, where the chambers of doctors and dentists intermingle +with warehouses. The Terrace is broad and treed and gardened like a +boulevard, and even along its garden and pedestrian side buildings have +been allowed. Here are the Railway Station and Parliament House, and, +east of King William Street, Government House behind its palm trees +and lawns, the Public Reading Rooms and Library, the Art Gallery, the +University, and the big Exhibition Building, which forms one entrance +to an Oval and Showground. Still further east is the long red-bricked +General Hospital, with its wide, shady lawn, and the ironwork entrance +to the lovely Botanic Gardens. + +At the back of all these, between sloping banks of grass and flowers, +flows the Torrens. There is a little embarrassment about showing our +river to visitors, lest they should wish to row too far west or east, +and we South Australians do not care to expose our limitations to +dwellers on Thameside. The fact is that our river has to be carefully +saved up and dammed back for the purpose, and once a year we empty +it for excavation and repairs. Some precisians call it a lake—an +artificial lake. One midwinter, when the mud-banks gleamed grey and +slimy, and only a narrow trickle forced a way along the middle of the +bed, we were subjected to civic humiliation. The Governor-General +announced a hasty and unpremeditated visit. Every effort was made to +fill the Torrens against his Excellency’s arrival, but despite all that +man could do we had to hurry the representative of majesty past a very +meagre stream. + +This north end of the city is undoubtedly the loveliest. Here the +line of lower roofs is broken by towers and spires and miniature +sky-scrapers rising above the quaint architecture of a cruder time and +art. And it is over this north end of the city, with its corrugated +sky-line, its river and its lawns, that the slender Cathedral looks, +standing on a hill above churches and houses whose bases are lost in +greenery. East and south are pretty suburbs where each house stands in +its own garden, but only in North Adelaide are the homes so spacious, +so serene, so certain of their beauty and their fitness. Oddly enough, +this retreat of wealth and leisure has for western neighbour the region +where the gas and soap and bricks are made, where hides are tanned and +laundry work is done. But then North Adelaide holds up her skirts with +jewelled hands and stands clear of the squalor of Bowden and Hindmarsh +by a whole park width. + +When electric cars were brought to Adelaide the Municipal Tramways +Trust had the humorous notion, or perhaps it was only the business +instinct, fortified by democratic principle, of whizzing the North +Adelaide cars down the hill and round to Bowden. And so pretty misses +with books or racquets or clubs rub shoulders with stout old parties +laden with string bags and parcels, and dingy women are bitterly +amused when their grubby offspring wipe their boots on the dresses +of remote and silken ladies. The fastidious gaze reluctantly on the +lashless, pink-lidded outdoor patients, on the monstrous and deformed. +Oh, the classes meet the masses in the Hill Street car! + + +A Literature in the Making + +Criticism often seems presumptuous, yet until we have examined and +weighed, how can we set a price—appreciate? For us who are but +amateurs, and who have taken our growth in a province, the attempt to +fix the price (as against assessing the value for us, which is always +legitimate, for it reveals our own position rather than the subject’s) +of the great writers of the world is true presumption; our legitimate +training in criticism we get by exercising our discrimination on our +unfortunate contemporaries and compeers, the not-yet, the perhaps +not-to-be, acclaimed. + +In 1916, G. Hassell & Son published a small brown pocket volume, +“Poems, Real and Imaginative,” by M. R. Walker. Like so many other +little books between 1914 and 1919, it was intended to aid the funds +of the Red Cross; unlike, on the other hand, so many of its companions, +it really deserved for its own sake the sympathetic attention of all +literary Australians. _The Bulletin_ was rather off-handed with the +little stranger, for _The Bulletin_, hardy parent that it is, often +favours the lusty, the clamorous, even the violent and rude, more than +the child with the low, sweet voice; but there must have been many who +pondered the twenty-four sets of verses in the wee book, for it ran +into a second edition. + +It has been out long enough now for us to estimate it impartially. + +Not a mine of pure gold, it is good enough to be mistaken for such by +the uncritical, bad enough to have its qualities entirely overlooked +by the supercilious. All is very fair verse, bits are true poetry; but +perhaps no piece, however short, is pure poetry throughout. + +The topics are the simple, natural, age-old topics of the poet—the sea +and the moon and the mountains, love, friendship, and country. Of these +Miss Walker is most adequate to the first group, to “Sea Pictures,” “A +June Evening,” “To the Ouse.” Read this fragment of blank verse from +“Half-moon Bay”:— + + High overhead + The forest stretching to the seven peaks + Is beautiful in slopes of wilding gum, + Wattle, and box. The sad shea-oaks, + Huddled together down a windy ridge, + Whisper their troublous sighing to the waves + A thousand feet below. + The coves and inlets of the circling bay + Are floored with giant pebbles, and the wash + Goes sweeping up the deep rock-riven cracks + To break in shallows on the level ledge, + And drop again in sparkling waterfall. + +The felicities of picture and of sound in this are typical of her art, +but it misses the sunshine and open-air buoyancy of “At Maria Island.” + + Oh the yellow broom is growing + On the sand-banks by the sea, + And the breezes blowing, blowing, + Mingle with the waters’ flowing + In a haunting melody. + + There the gulls are rising, falling, + To the heaving of the tide, + Listen to them calling, calling, + To the fishermen a-hauling + Nets, out where the schooners ride. + +Perhaps “At Maria Island” comes nearest to maintaining throughout +the same technical level, and the same trend of theme. A short +and convenient instance of the vague but disconcerting shifting +of the direction of the thought, and a certain incompleteness or +fragmentariness, that characterize most of the pieces, is “Sea +Pictures.” + + Know you the swinging of wild water after storm, + The racing breeze that sings along the sand, + And rocks, deep-flung, where sea-birds love to swarm, + Wave-weary for the land? + + There are fair nights in summer on the sea, + And moonlight falling gentlier on the waves + Than echo’s sighs, borne back again to me + From dim, sea-haunted caves. + +Here the thought does not march from one verse to the next; rather +there is a turning away from the question that links poet and reader in +eager sympathy, to a mood of brooding, personal reminiscence. In “Blue” +the jerkiness is conscious, and is covered by a conceit impossible +to the serious poetic mood. In “There is a Land” it manifests itself +as obscurity. Poetry is in the air, but the poet cannot freely draw +breath. In the eighteen lines of this poem are examples of nearly +all Miss Walker’s qualities; there is inspiration, but inadequately +expressed, a passionate clutching at a meaning that eludes the words, +and comes out rather baldly, as in the line, + + Ah Death; and some pass on, that know not and are blind. + +There is technical failure—and technical felicity. + + ... the soul + Cries to the silence with a living cry— + A whisper that goes by upon the wind, + A breaking wave upon some lonely shore, + The list’ning hush of mountains in the dawn, + And lo! the Voice! An echo in the soul! + And then—the level stillness of the days. + +The irregularity in the pulse of the thought is found also in some +constructions which, though grammatical, are unexpected and not at +first obvious, where, for instance, we were expecting one object to be +described, and find that the epithet applies to another, the thought +having moved on; it is also reflected in a technique so frequent as to +become a mannerism:— + + ... a Voice + Calling unto its own, that, oft, the soul ... + As sullen seas that, sweeping o’er some reef ... + Where, low, the boobyallas keep.... + +These halts and returns would not be noticed in longer poems, or in the +poems read separately; but the ear of the student begins to wait for +them, as it does for some inevitable voice-pauses at line-endings where +the meaning should trip on. + + ... tree-guarded from the light + Flinging its wide farewell across the sky. + +(This also is an instance of the unexpected construction referred to +above; we are expecting a further description of “deep wells of shade,” +what we get is an adjectival clause about “light”; perhaps it is the +voice-pause that gives this feeling and sends us back again upon our +construing.) + + ... the fishermen a-hauling + Nets, + +in the quotation above also pulls us up with a jerk. + +There are other tricks of manner that grow monotonous. “O Moon,” “O Son +of Essex,” “Ah, Love,” “Ah, Death,” “Oh have you ever stood alone to +watch ...” Apostrophe and exclamation so reiterated point to poverty +of expression, to a labouring to say what cannot get itself said. And +there are commonplace lines, prose in metre— + + O moon, that risest now, how beautiful thou art. + Poor little girl, you did not wish to die. + +Perhaps there is bathos— + + A little, wandering, broken-hearted child. + +But not all this can do away with the many triumphs, the recurrent +charms for eye and ear— + + Thy waters washing into shallow pools ... + + ... a moorèd boat + Asway upon the idle-swinging tide ... + + The islands to the north were bathed in sleep, + Their cliffs stood out in sunshine to the sea, + Only the murmur, murmur, of the waves, + Broke the long silence unto you and me. + +The songs and the scenes and the thought are not joyous. Beauty of +nature, and loves of friends, or man and maid, induce wistful thoughts. +The sadness may be explicit— + + But in the days, ay me! the empty days, + The long, long days that lead to no fireside, + Philosophy’s a thing to call a friend, + To hold to, and to cherish, lest one fail, + Afraid before the vista of the years. + +Or it may sigh itself out in falling cadence, as in the song on page +24, where what should be a sigh of ecstacy falls on the ear like a +foreboding. But the melancholy is never morbid. It may be hopeless, but +it is resigned and controlled and quietly courageous. + +Australia is too young to produce great poetry, for that never blossoms +from unacclimatized minds. But the necessary conditions are gradually +emerging. Australians are increasingly in sympathy with their country +and its qualities: its sunlight, its seas and mountains and plains and +deserts, its sheep and its wheat and forests and minerals, are all +giving out their emanations into the mental medium where poetry forms; +there, too, our traditions are being made or absorbed. We have not yet +the plethora of elements from which the great poetic souls take shape, +but crystals more or less characteristic are being precipitated from +such material as there is. Those of to-day may be small and cloudy and +faultily-shapen, but they presage a beauty and a perfection in the +poetry of the future. + + + G. HASSELL & SON. + PRINTERS & PUBLISHERS, + CURRIE ST., ADELAIDE. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75957 *** diff --git a/75957-h/75957-h.htm b/75957-h/75957-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2296d74 --- /dev/null +++ b/75957-h/75957-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2925 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Petunia Again: Sketches | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} +.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; 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+} +img.w100 {width: 100%;} + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 1em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} +/* comment out next line and uncomment the following one for floating figleft on ebookmaker output */ +.x-ebookmaker .figleft {float: none; text-align: center; margin-right: 0;} +/* .x-ebookmaker .figleft {float: left;} */ + +.figright { + float: right; + clear: right; + margin-left: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 0; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} +/* comment out next line and uncomment the following one for floating figright on ebookmaker output */ +.x-ebookmaker .figright {float: none; text-align: center; margin-left: 0;} +/* .x-ebookmaker .figright {float: right;} */ + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: 1px dashed;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} +.poetry .indent16 {text-indent: 5em;} +.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2em;} +.poetry .indent24 {text-indent: 9em;} +.poetry .indent28 {text-indent: 11em;} +.poetry .indent30 {text-indent: 12em;} +.poetry .indent4 {text-indent: -1em;} +.poetry .indent8 {text-indent: 1em;} + + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75957 ***</div> + + + + +<h1><span class="smcap">Petunia Again</span></h1> + +<p class="center xlarge">SKETCHES</p> + +<p class="center large">BY +S. ELIZABETH JACKSON</p> + +<p class="center">A book is very like a kite, being made of paper and +sent out at a venture.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>G. K. Chesterton.</i></p> + +<p class="center large">ADELAIDE<br> +G. HASSELL & SON<br> +1920 +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p class="center large">TO</p> + +<p class="center large">MY GRANDFATHER</p> + +<p class="center large">J.T.C.</p> + + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p><i>The little girl that was me</i>: "I've nothing to read +in the train."</p> + +<p><i>My grandfather</i>: "And you won't need anything. +There will be things to see and people to listen to."</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="PREFACE">PREFACE.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>"At Petunia" was received so kindly that I +venture to offer these final sketches. The little +township on the plains is now for me only a +happy memory. Unlike their predecessors, +most of the present sketches and essays have +appeared before, either in <cite>Orion</cite>, <cite>The Adelaide +University Magazine</cite>, <cite>The Red Cross +Record</cite>, or <cite>The Woman's Record</cite>, which I have +to thank for allowing me to re-publish.</p> + +<p class="right"> +S.E.J.</p> +<p> +Woodside,<br> +10th November, 1920. +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> +</div> + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> +<td class="tdc" colspan="2">Petunia Again</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdr">Page</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Welcome</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Welcome">1</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Backblocks</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Backblocks">3</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Aeroplane</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Aeroplane">5</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">From the Chinese</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#From_the_Chinese">8</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Adopting Emily</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Adopting_Emily">10</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Twocott</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Twocott">13</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">A Country Writer</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Country_Writer">14</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Hypnotist</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Hypnotist">23</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Tin Lizzie</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Tin_Lizzie">24</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Show</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Show">26</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Haircut</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Haircut">28</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Scipio</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Scipio">29</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Bill Boundy</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Bill_Boundy">31</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">An Angry Man</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Angry_Man">33</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Alcibiades</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Alcibiades">36</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">News</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#News">37</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Amusing Daisy</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Amusing_Daisy">39</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Obiit</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Obiit">41</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Drought</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Drought">41</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdc" colspan="2">The Works of Simple Simon, LL.D.,<br> +D.Litt., Ph.D., M.B., B.S.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">An Emendation</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Emendation">44</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">A Protest</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Protest">46</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">A "Lancet" Article</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Lancet">48</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">An Application of Psychology to Medicine</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Application">50</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Our National Bulletin</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#National_Bulletin">52</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Nigger</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Nigger">60</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdc" colspan="2">Miscellaneous</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Queen City of the South</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Queen_City">62</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">A Literature in the Making</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Literature">68</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="Petunia_Again">Petunia Again</h2> +</div> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Welcome">Welcome</h3> + +<p>Such a week as we have had in the country! +You talk about the stopping of the cars giving +people a welcome rest in the evenings. Well, +we have no cars to stop, and only three trains +a week, and still we can manage eleven social +engagements in six days! Three of them were +welcomes to soldiers. Seventy-eight went away +from this district, and every time one returns +(and that is very often now, thank God!) all +the houses along the route from the railway +station are decorated with flags. I expect that +sometimes he wonders why people who take +the trouble to decorate in his honour do not +come out to wave. When he gets to the +Institute he knows, because we are all there +waiting to cheer and make speeches. Nothing +about our boys has been finer than the +courtesy with which they take our cheers and +let us say "Thank you." It relieves us, but oh, +how it embarrasses them! They redden, but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span>they smile, and are far from looking foolish +when they "get up to reply." The speeches +aren't always very easy to reply to, either, +because what we call courage and duty-doing +they think just a matter of course. Perhaps +nothing more to the point has ever been said to +them than this spontaneous outburst in one +speech:—"By Jo, we are glad to see you." It +was worth all the rest about gallantry, and +endurance, and honour, and so on. We thought +all that, too, but just then what was delighting +us was to see them. We had missed them, and +now they were back and we would meet them +in our daily lives again. And next morning +their mothers would wake up happy because +George and Clem were safe back, actually in +the house in their own room at that moment!</p> + +<p>Well, besides these official (and yet quite informal) +welcomes there was also a large private +party where another soldier, welcomed some +time before, was to dance and talk with his +friends, and there was also a Butterfly Fair, +because now the war is over we simply must +have a piano for the Sunday School Kindergarten. +And there was the Red Cross meeting, +and a Home Mission meeting, and the literary +society, and choir practice, and a Band of +Hope concert, and, of course, football on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span>Saturday, for most of our players are coming +back again now, though there are some we +shall never see.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Backblocks">The Backblocks</h3> + +<p>Too many town people are prepared to talk as +though "the outbacks" were anywhere beyond +a 20-mile radius of the G.P.O. When you are +really in the backblocks you turn the washing +machine for your hostess, make complicated +arrangements for keeping the ants out of the +sugar, help "separate," cut out some jumpers +for the children on the newest town pattern, +and take your afternoon ride on the poison-cart +attending to bunny. Once or twice a week +you go into the township for the mail. You +bath frugally because all the water is caught +off the roof or in the dam, and you empty the +tub on to what garden there is, for none can +be wasted.</p> + +<p>I pity all healthy women who never have a +chance to go sometimes where life, though not +easy, is simple and self-contained and wholesome, +where the work cannot be delegated to +the baker or the small goods man or the dressmaker +just because the weather is hot or you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span>don't feel up to the mark. Without this you +cannot feel all the joy of being thoroughly +essential to your family—nor its occasional +terror. Only very fine women can live such a +life properly, though. You have to find your +happiness and your amusement in the life +itself, not in some artificial amusement patched +on for the moment. You have to find it in permanent +and ultimate things, in love and work +and effort and hope and helpfulness, not in +"The Pictures" or a variety show.</p> + +<p>I don't pretend not to enjoy a variety show +myself when I'm in town, and I don't pretend +that Petunia is in the backblocks, but it is in +the country, and I am quite sure that country +life is as enjoyable as a town one, though not +every one feels it. Anyone can take a pill, but +not all can make one, nor even pick out the +ingredients from a lot of herbs and drugs +presented to them.</p> + +<p>I suppose that is the trouble with Joyce +Wickhams. She has gone to work in town so +that she can go to the Pav. and Henley Beach +on band nights as often as she likes. I hope +she will miss feeding the swill to the grunting, +shoving, greedy pigs, miss the leisurely cows, +miss the glow of health that you feel—without +thinking about it—as you canter out for them. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span>And Saturday's tennis is never quite so nice in +town as it is in the country, where you know +everyone on the courts very well, are going +to sing with most of them at the concert in +March, and went with them to the working bee +at the school last week. We shall miss Joyce. +She was the best housemaid we've ever had in +our dialogues, and the most popular waitress +at tea meetings. Of course she will laugh a +great deal at Charlie Chaplin, and the town +entertainments will be very clever, but the fun +that is made for you doesn't make so much of +your mind and heart laugh as the fun that you +help make yourself.</p> +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<h3 id="Aeroplane">The Aeroplane</h3> + +<p>The excitement continues. We've had rain +and we've seen the aeroplane! In fact they +came together. On Sunday it was given out +in the churches that between 10 and 11 on +Monday, Capt. Butler would fly over Petunia +and drop Peace Loan literature. Farmers immediately +decided that one morning off +couldn't make much difference to a bad season, +and mothers and daughters exchanged +glances in which the washing was postponed. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>When the school mistress had it announced in +the Twocott chapel that there would be no +lessons next morning, the children's flushed +faces were as good as cheers. Even the Hobbledehoy, +who had seen the great sight in +town, of course, was not so blasé as he pretended.</p> + +<p>On Monday motors and traps and waggons +poured into Petunia through driving wind and +rain. Pedestrians with umbrellas struggled +against the blast. I don't quite know what +we expected. Perhaps we thought the aeroplane +would only be visible from the main +street, or that it would land there, or that the +literature would, and in any case, we all +wanted to take our excitement in company. +We lined up for shelter in the lee of shops and +houses. Opinions differed. Some thought +the Institute the best site, some the post-office, +and some plumped for the vicinity of the +Recreation Ground, as affording a clear view +and a suitable place for an airman to descend +(or drop out) after a spiral or a nose-dive.</p> + +<p>The Postmaster suggested that the weather +might be too ... but we shut him up for a +croaker, and poddled about exchanging anticipations +and chaffing young Jones, who was +"look-out" to report the arrival to the expectant +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>school. A stockman drifted in with a +herd of yearlings, and we watched him zig-zag +them resignedly past the groups of traps and +people. Wet ruts gleamed in some fitful sunshine +along the straight road stretching between +green paddocks into the moist distance. +There came an unexpected sound overhead, +and the school children burst along the street +with decorous hilarity. Something we had +seen in pictures emerged from the grey and +glided overhead, and into the distant grey +again, "like a spoggy in the sky," as young +Allen poetically observed.</p> + +<p>It was in sight for quite four minutes.</p> + +<p>Half an hour later we were fairly certain +that there were to be no nose-dives, no +spirals, not even any literature. We snubbed +the Postmaster, and closed in on the Institute, +where the chairman of the district tried to +focus our attention on the Peace Loan, and +make us feel we had not come out for nothing. +Then laughing people turned their collars up +round their ears, climbed into buggies, and +shook the reins. "Gid-dup."</p> +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p> + +<h3 id="From_the_Chinese">From the Chinese</h3> + +<p>A few people despise poetry; many more +speak respectfully of it only because they think +they ought to, not because they, personally, +understand it or even appreciate it. Of course, +it is quite easy to enjoy a poem without understanding +its technique, its rhyme, rhythm, and +so on, or without being able to say in what, +apart from the form, it differs from prose. +"Can't you <em>feel</em> it?" is often the sufficient +answer, in the words of a certain professor of +classics.</p> + +<p>The following fragment from the Chinese +makes us feel that it is poetry, though the +translator cannot convey to us the poetic form +of the original.</p> + + +<p class="center p2">PO CHU-I STARTS ON A JOURNEY +EARLY IN THE MORNING.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Washed by the rain, dust and grime are laid;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Skirting the river, the road's course is flat.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The moon has risen on the last remnants of night;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The traveller's speed profits by the early cold.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the great silence I whisper a faint song;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the black darkness are bred sombre thoughts.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On the lotus-banks hovers a dewy breeze;</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span></p> + <div class="verse indent0">Through the rice furrows trickles a singing stream.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At the noise of our bells a sleeping dog stirs;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At the sight of our torches a roosting bird wakes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dawn glimmers through the shapes of misty trees....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For ten miles, till day at last breaks.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>"More than a thousand years have elapsed +since that journey," says the <cite>Times</cite> reviewer, +"and nobody knows the words of that 'faint +song,' or the nature of those 'sombre +thoughts,' but we are just as intimately acquainted +with Po Chu-I as if he had enlarged +by the page on his emotional complexities.... +Chinese poetry aims to induce a mood +rather than to state a thought.... Po +Chu-I's sorrows and joys and placid reveries +hover in the mind after the book is closed, and +that—and not the number of startling remarks +made—is the test of a poem's value."</p> + +<p>To-day or a thousand years ago, China or +Australia, it is all the same. You and I have +made journeys like that, and can share the +poet's mood. We have arisen early and crept +about by lantern-light, we have let ourselves +out on to a road that lies white under a cold +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span>moon, and have thrilled and hasted in the chill +air. The first solemn joy gave place to gloom +as the heralding darkness enveloped the world. +And then we felt the dawn-breeze among the +gum trees, and heard the creek rustle through +the water-cress. A dog barked, a bird peeped, +and the first pink cloud floated in the brightening +sky. And then the world woke up, the +magpies and the farmyards and the pumping +engine, and we were glad that we were afoot +and off, and a little proud about it.</p> + +<p>And a thousand years ago an old, old Chinaman +sang our mood for us, and lo! it was +poetry. And because we have felt it all for +ourselves, though we did not know how to tell +about it, what he says plays on our minds like +music, and we live the mood again.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Adopting_Emily">Adopting Emily</h3> + +<p>"Seen that fine tabby in the woodhouse?" enquired +Joshua.</p> + +<p>"She's got a beautiful white chest," agreed +Hob, "and that loose skin and soft fur like old +M'Glusky."</p> + +<p>"And a pink nose," said Daisy.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span></p> +<p>"And her eyes are amber. Do let's adopt +her," said I.</p> + +<p>"Yes, let's," chorused the others—all except +Marjorie, who prefers mousetraps, and says +that where one or two cats are gathered together, +or something, there is always an awful +noise. However, we determined to have that +tabby.</p> + +<p>Have you ever tried to adopt a duchess? A +duchess in reduced circumstances? Then you +don't know what we have been through with +Emily. (We call her Emily after Miss Fox-Seton, +the "large, placid creature, kind rather +than intelligent," who became Marchioness in +one of Mrs. Hodgson Burnett's books.) Emily +is a cat of character. She didn't want to be +adopted. She didn't mind renting our woodheap, +but preferred not to have to meet the +family. She would keep herself to herself, +thank you. She used to sit, serene and dignified, +blinking in a sunbeam among the roots, lifting +her white bosom and gently kneading the +ground. If you offered her food she seemed to +put up her lorgnettes at you, and it wasn't any +good leaving the saucer and going round the +corner. When you came back Emily was gone, +and the food wasn't.</p> + +<p>She certainly impressed us. We built up all +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>sorts of legends around her. Her disdain for +food and her calm refusal either to accept our +advances, to withdraw from her place, or to be +seen hurrying at any time, seemed so very +aristocratic. And then how she kept up appearances! +Marjorie scarcely took the same +view as the rest of us, especially after Emily +so haughtily snubbed the milk she had offered +herself. She said she didn't believe she was a +duchess at all; more of a peroxide barmaid +about Emily, if you asked her, a minx with a +bust who put on airs. And a few nights later +she said she wouldn't have cats encouraged +about the place. She said she believed Emily +was the cause of that jazz party on the lawn in +the moonlight.</p> + +<p>Emily jazz! Never!</p> + +<p>"Adopting Emily" became the favourite +diversion of our leisure. In the end it was very +mortifying, very mortifying indeed. We were +all sitting on our heels round the woodheap +coaxing Emily, and Emily as usual was barely +tolerating our presence, too proud to withdraw, +when Mr. Wickhams came across the paddocks +to borrow another axe.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm blowed!" said he; "so this is +where our old cat goes. She's only been home +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>for meals since the wife turned her out of the +hat-box."</p> + +<p>Yes, what we took for dignity was sulks, and +her aristocratic superiority to food was due, to +put it bluntly, to a full stomach. Mr. Wickhams +handsomely forgave us for trying to +abduct his best mouser as he stretched a long +arm into the wood and hauled her off by the +scruff of the neck. Such an indignity for +Emily.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Twocott">Twocott</h3> + +<p>Driving out to Buxton on Wednesday afternoon, +I picked up little Jennie Elliott walking +home from Twocott.</p> + +<p>"Do you go to school already?" I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I've been going a long time—ever since +Christmas. We got a nice teacher. She is +always good to us—unless she can't help it; +and we are always good to her, unless <em>we</em> can't +help it." Dear understanding little mite. "All +of us are in the second grade nearly." "All +of us" have now learnt to sing, and Jennie is +always out early—unless she is kept in.</p> + +<p>She held on tightly to the side of the dog-cart +and looked about the country while she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>prattled out the gossip of the school from the +point of view of a six-year-old, and I felt a +swelling of gratitude to the wonderful teacher +who keeps eight grades busy and happy and +proud of themselves, and convinced that she is +proud of them, too! "All of us" have a very +nice time at Twocott, and are learning to be +considerate and tolerant and self-controlled, +as well as the more formal lessons, and all +taught by a mere woman who understands the +art of discipline without a stick.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Country_Writer">A Country Writer</h3> + +<p>A writer in <cite>The Times Literary Supplement</cite> +complains of the dearth of good novels of +country life. The modern author, he asserts, +claps the story on to any county, irrespective +of the spirit of the place. He takes a tourist's +trip to Cornwall or Yorkshire, and makes a +book out of it, though his dialogue was never +heard on land or sea, flowers bloom together +whose seasons never met, and his pitiful town +thinness of mind is visible alike in what he sees +and in what he fails to see.</p> + +<p>Against these degenerate moderns the letter +sets Richard Doddridge Blackmore, and regrets +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>that all his novels but one are neglected +by an undiscriminating or too hasty generation.</p> + +<p>Now it is the virtue of country libraries +that, though only the feeblest of modern novels +may find a way there, the best of the old linger +on their shelves long after they have been +ejected from more pretentious places. And +so, while this letter was still fresh in my mind, +in our Institute at Petunia, rubbing sides with +volumes by Mrs. Gaskell and Miss Braddon, +I came across "Cripps the Carrier," whose +title page proclaimed it to be "by the author +of Lorna Doone." I took it home, despite my +doubt, as I eyed its yellow pages and heavy +print, that I should pay with yawns for my +virtuosity.</p> + +<p>And then on the very first page I met Dobbin, +"the best harse as ever looked through a +bridle."</p> + +<p>"Every 'talented' man must think, whenever +he walks beside a horse, of the superior +talents of the horse ... the power of +blowing (which no man hath in a comely and +decorous form); and last, not least, the final +blessing of terminating decorously in a tail.... +Scarcely any man stops to think of +the many cares that weigh upon the back of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>an honest horse. Dobbin knew all this, but +was too much of a horse to dwell on it. He +kept his tongue well under his bit, his eyes in +sagacious blinkers, and sturdily up the hill he +stepped, while Cripps, his master, trudged +beside him."</p> + +<p>At the second page I was smiling outright, +and knew that not a word of this book would +I knowingly skip.</p> + +<p>Such is the quality of the writing that not +only do we learn to know Zacchary Cripps and +his brother Tickus (christened after the third +book of the "Pentachook," as they called his +sixth brother), his horse Dobbin, and Mary +Hookham, "as he was a tarnin' over in +his mind," together with Squire Oglander, +Lawyer—or "Liar"—Sharp, as Zac addressed +him, "wishing to put all things legal," +Miranda his wife, and Kit his son, as well as +or better than we know our neighbours, but +we are all the time falling in love with that +sly rogue, that mellow scholar, that lover of a +horse and a pretty girl, Richard Doddridge +Blackmore. Here is a man who knows and +loves and smiles over the rustic mind and +life, as he knows and loves the trees, the +hedges, the ruts, the sunlight, and the frosts, +and all the ways of Nature. He is leisurely, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>and you must be leisurely with him. You +must stop to see what he sees, and accompany +all his friends on their goings out and +comings in, smiling and enjoying with him. +He cares more for the telling than for the +story; he knows, like Louis Stevenson, +that "to travel hopefully is better than to +arrive."</p> + +<p>Oxford and Oxfordshire are the scenes of +the story, and we hear more of town than +gown, and more of Beckley than either. If +the precise critic ask whether it be a novel of +character or of place or of plot, the precise +critic is a fool. There is the country, with its +lanes and hedges and changing seasons, and +there are the people who carried and delved +and gossiped and wondered, sympathized +with the trials of their "betters," and did +their duty by parish church and parish +"public," "same as Christians ought to." +And if you put it squarely to Squire (or Parson?) +Blackmore: "Come, now, you don't +expect me to believe that Lawyer Sharp actually +... eh?" he will vouchsafe such a +Philistine not so much as a wink in reply, +though you may catch a quizzical twinkle at a +generation too bald-minded to enjoy a hop +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>field because the blossom must be held up on +poles.</p> + +<p>Blackmore, like Shakespeare, knows every +turn of the bucolic's slow, sturdy, tortuous +mind; he loved his pauses, the dawning of +perception, his easy missing of the point, his +superstitions, and his common sense. Read +this (it comes in that passage where the escaping +Grace Oglander appeals to the Carrier to +shelter her from pursuit in his van):</p> + +<p>"But missy, poor missy," Cripps stammered +out, drawing on his heart for every word, +"you was buried on the seventh day of January, +in the year of our Lord 1838; three +pickaxes was broken over digging your grave +by reason of the frosty weather, and all of us +come to your funeral! Do 'ee go back, miss, +that's a dear! The churchyard to Beckley is +a comfortable place, and this here wood no +place for a Christian."</p> + +<p>And he can paint the brisk homely maids as +well as the gaping tongue-tied men.</p> + +<p>"Now, sir, if you please. You must—you +must," cried Mary Hookham, his best maid, +trotting in with her thumbs turned back from +a right hot dish, and her lips up as if she +were longing to kiss him, to let out her feelings.... +"Sir, if you please, you must ate a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>bit.... 'Take on,' as my mother has +often said, 'take on as you must, if your heart +is right, when the hand of the Lord is upon +you; but never take off with your victuals.'... +All of us has our own troubles," said +Mary, "but these here pickles is wonderful."</p> + +<p>In the affectionate malice of the misadventures +into which is plunged Hardenow, that +earnest, scholarly Tractarian, there is all the +fun of a man who is teasing a beloved and +misguided friend. The muscles he is so proud +of shall be laughed at, into brambles he shall +plunge, and lose his hat and tear his neckcloth +into ribbons; in a pig-net shall he be caught, +and his athletic legs having struck terror into +the mind of Rabbit John, bound with thongs +shall he be, and left in an empty pig-stye, the +very parlour of pig-styes ("on the floor, where +he had the best of it, for odour ever rises"), +there to continue his fast for many hours. +Pity him not overmuch; "his accustomed +stomach but thinks it Friday come again!"</p> + +<p>Aye, Blackmore knew man, and maid, and +beast—even pig. Lying in this plight, +Hardenow sees:</p> + +<p>"... a loose board, lifted every now +and then by the unringed snout of a very +good old sow. Pure curiosity was her motive, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>and no evil appetite, as her eyes might tell. +She had never seen a fellow and a tutor of a +college rolling, as she herself longed to do; and +yet in a comparatively clumsy way. She +grunted deep disapprovement of his movements, +and was vexed that her instructions +were so entirely thrown away."</p> + +<p>Here is a picture of a little child, seen +through his hole by the distracted tutor:</p> + +<p>"A little child toddled to the wicket gate +and laid fat arms against it, and laboured, +with impatient grunts, to push it open.... +He gazed with his whole might at this little +peg of a body, in the distance toppling forward, +and throwing out behind the whole +weight of its great efforts.... This little +peg, now in battle with the gate, was a solid +Peg in earnest; a fine little Cripps, about five +years old, as firm as if just turned out of a +churn. She was backward in speech, as all the +little Crippses are; and she rather stared +forth her ideas than spoke them. But still, +let her once get a settlement concerning a +thing that must be done to carry out her own +ideas, and in her face it might be seen, once +for all, that stop she never would till her own +self had done it....</p> + +<p>"Taught by adversity (the gate had banged +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>her chubby knees, etc.) she did thus: Against +the gatepost she settled her most substantial +availability, and exerted it, and spared not. +Therewith she raised one solid leg, and spread +the naked foot thereof, while her lips were firm +as any toe of all the lot, against the vile thing +that had knocked her about, and the power +that was contradicting her. Nothing could +withstand this fixed resolution of one of the +far more resolute moiety of humanity. With +a creak of surrender the gate gave back; and +out came little Peggy Cripps, with a broad +face glowing with triumph."</p> + +<p>I have told you of Dobbin; I suppose I +mustn't detain you to hear about Lawyer +Sharp's horse? "A better disposed horse was +never foaled; and possibly none—setting +Dobbin aside, as the premier and quite unapproachable +type—who took a clearer view +of his duties to the provider of corn, hay, and +straw, and was more ready to face and undergo +all proper responsibilities.... He cannot +fairly be blamed, and not a pound should be +deducted from his warrantable value, simply +because he did what any other young horse +in the world would have thought to be right. +He stared all round to ask what was coming +next, he tugged on the bridle, with his fore +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>feet out, as a leverage against injustice, and +his hind legs spread wide apart, like a merry +thought, ready to hop anywhere." Later he +made for Oxford, "where he thought of his +oat sieve smelling sweetly, and nice little +nibbles at his clover hay, and the comfortable +soothing of his creased places by a man who +would sing a tune to him."</p> + +<p>One of the charms of the book is that it will +make you a nuisance to your family; there are +so many pictures that you simply must read +them, so many phrases they must taste with +you, and everything that you do quote seems +to be capped and improved upon by something +a little further on, and you simply must +venture it.</p> + +<p>Not a thing does he miss, from ruts (oh, +that pæan on ruts! "Everything here was +favourable to the very finest growth of +ruts. The road had once been made, which +is a necessary condition of any masterpiece of +rut work; it had then been left to maintain +itself, which encourages wholesome development....") +to the effects of a hard frost, +the borings of the Sirex Gigas, and the tufted +undergrad. who tools the "Flying Dutchman" +up the streets of Oxford. And nothing would +we have him miss.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span></p> +<p>How can I let my dear friend Richard +Blackmore, with his chuckling gossip about +Worth Oglander and Grace, Cripps, and the +rustics of Oxford and Beckley, fade out of +memory on Petunia shelves?</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Hypnotist">The Hypnotist</h3> + +<p>The Round of Gaiety continues. We have just +lived through a Sunday School anniversary +(with tea meeting), a visit from <em>the</em> hypnotist, +and the Show.</p> + +<p>The Hobbledehoy (latterly known as Hob) +wrote that his father must go to the hypnotic +entertainment. He had been with some of +the boys from College, and the sight of a +respectable schoolmaster under the delusion +that he was assisting at a dogfight left him +without words to express his joy. On hearing +that our new man, Fat Bill Boundy, who has +the face of a natural comedian, meant to submit +himself for experiment, Joshua decided +that a little amusement would cheer Marjorie +up, and of course he accompanied her.</p> + +<p>Admission turned out to be 2s. 4d. and +3s. 6d.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span></p> +<p>"But the advertisement said 'Popular +Prices,'" protested Joshua.</p> + +<p>"That's right," agreed the ticket man, +smoothly, "popular with the entertainer."</p> + +<p>Joshua says that this was the only joke of +the evening. Bill Boundy went up on to the +platform all right, but the Great Man only +made him twiddle his fingers and roll his eyes. +He said that on this occasion he was "mesmerizing +but not hypnotizing." Joshua sat up +half the night with Jack's Reference Book +and the Encyclopædia Britannica, trying to +find out the difference. It appears that it +consists in the size of the town in which the +performance is given.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Tin_Lizzie">Tin Lizzie</h3> + +<p>Our minister bought a "Tin Lizzie"—at least, +I'm afraid he passed it off with the old, old +joke, "We'll have a Ford now, and a motor +after the war." But Tin Lizzie worked +harder than any horse, and our minister was +well satisfied—except when he forgot to water +her, or crank her, or in some way misunderstood +her internal organs; and then he called +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>her "The Pesky Thing," and even went so +far as to say—I mean, of course, to <em>think</em>—"Dash +it."</p> + +<p>But a time came when the Pesky Thing had +to be cleaned, and oiled, and crawled over, and +squirmed under, and taken to pieces, and—and—sermonized +over. And our minister was +a persevering man, and so were his friends; +and they talked and thought and read motors, +and captured the local mechanic and a passing +amateur and an expert; and finally they got +her to go—a little way. Wherefore on Saturday +night the minister went to bed happy.</p> + +<p>But all the same he had a dream, a nightmare, +a hair-raising, heart-stopping nightmare. +He dreamed that he was <em>walking</em> to church +when he noticed his boots—and they were his +motor-cleaning boots, scraped on the heels and +worn at the toes and cracked all over. But he +was not dismayed; the pulpit would hide +them.</p> + +<p>And yet a little way, and lo, he had on his +head the cap, the greasy, poacher's cap that +protected his clerical hairs from the motor-drippings.</p> + +<p>"But I can pocket my cap," this imperturbable +man comforted himself.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> +<p>And yet a little further, and it was his coat, +his shapeless, sagging, grimy motor-coat.... +And now he really was put out, for, as he +foresaw,</p> + +<p>"I shall have on those trousers in a few +minutes!"</p> + +<p>And when at last he got to church the sense +of doom was upon him, and when he gave +out the hymn the organ was out of order.</p> + +<p>And they took it to pieces, and cleaned it, +and oiled it, and climbed over it and crawled +under it....</p> + +<p>"Now I see that all things work together +for good," dreamed our minister (he was ever +an optimist), "<em>for I've got the right togs on +for the job</em>."</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Show">The Show</h3> + +<p>During the strike our railway supported +only three trains a week; for the Show it +surpassed itself and ran three on one day, +or, rather, two and a dog-box. But they were +all full, and I do think the crowd enjoyed +itself, or at any rate Marjorie's prize cake +and cream puffs, which were carried off surreptitiously. +Joshua says that the judging +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>was very unsatisfactory. His two-tooth did +not get a prize. Marjorie, on the other hand, +considers that in the cooking and dairy sections +the most exemplary fairness was shown.</p> + +<p>In the general excitement of meeting Pete +Wigglesby, whom we haven't seen for years, +Joshua gave his order for a milking machine, +although the drought has set in again. Marjorie +wishes he would want to show off to +some other old friend, and order a new house. +"One without cement floors, and with no step +down into the kitchen," she says, plaintively. +"And with a bathroom," puts in Hob.</p> + +<p>Peterborough Show comes next, and I fancy +our men will mob it. For one thing, it is such +a good opportunity to get their hair cut. You +see, we are short of barbers in Petunia, and +any excursions are eagerly seized. When the +District Schools Picnic was held at Glenelg +there were queues outside the hairdressers +there till late in the afternoon, and it was +considered that the managers of our fair made +a great <i lang="fr">coup</i> when they ran a saloon as a +sideshow. By the end of the evening Dicky +Conlon was getting to be quite an expert hair-cutter. +There was a little disturbance when +Joe Wickhams saw himself in the glass, but +Constable Merritt knocked the razor out of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>his hand and pulled him off Dicky. After +that it was all right, because some one had +the presence of mind to take away the mirror.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Haircut">The Haircut</h3> + +<p>Joshua couldn't go to Peterborough Show +after all, and his hair was awful. Marjorie +"could not foresee to what lengths it would +go," and advised him to wear it in curling-pins. +Joshua begged her to try what she could +do with a basin, and finally persuaded her to +take a comb and scissors and "put the reaper +into the crop." Of course, the machine had to +go over it several times, but at last only the +stubble remained. She had some difficulty in +getting the furrows on one side to meet those +on the other, but finally the terrace effect was +complete. Windy corner, where the roads +meet on top, was a difficult point to negotiate, +and Vimy Ridge took some levelling. The +razor-work was particularly fine, and Joshua +deserves the V.C. Marjorie was rather dashed +by her failure to sell him a bottle of hair-restorer; +she urged that it might help check +the growth.</p> +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span></p> + +<h3 id="Scipio">Scipio</h3> + +<p>Daisy is still after a pet whose usefulness she +can justify as a potential mouse-catcher, but +our disappointment with the Duchess has made +us humbler and more discreet. This time we +asked a neighbour for the gift of his apparently +superfluous black kitten.</p> + +<p>"'Taint mine," said he; "it belongs to my +old Nosey. She had it in the haystack, and I +have never been able to catch it to drown it. +If you can get it you can have it."</p> + +<p>"We shan't find any difficulty with Scipio," +exulted the Hobbledehoy, home for "month +out," "because no one has been feeding him."</p> + +<p>"Scipio?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"The black kitten," he explained. "What +they used to call the little niggers. Good +name for a gutter-snipe."</p> + +<p>Well, we certainly have no difficulty in +getting Scipio into the neighbourhood of +nourishment. He (and Nosey his mother, and +Miss Perkins his aunt, and the Yellow Peril +from up the road) will scud across two paddocks +at the sound of our call. At twenty +paces, however, Scipio becomes coy. He rubs +himself ingratiatingly against his mother, he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>sniffs towards the food, but won't be wheedled. +He may daringly sneak up within six feet to +snatch a piece of meat, but he runs off again +growling and sticks a paw on it, and turns his +eyes towards us, flattening his ears while he +eats. By the exercise of great patience and +by throwing bits of meat at lessening distances +he has even learned to snatch the meat from +Daisy's hand, to eat it without moving far, +to—no, not to be stroked! At the first touch +on his fur he darts to the gate, brings up, +turns round, a little ashamed of his fright as +he hears Daisy's cooing voice—or, perhaps, +still a little hungry!—and stands ready for +flight, his tail gallantly up, though, and +twitching his muscles confidingly, so that the +fur ripples up and down his back in the sunlight. +He fixes us with his blue eyes, that +are already turning green at the edges, starts +forward, checks—and that is as far as we can +get with the adopting of Scipio. Poor little +gutter-snipe! We shall never tame him. He +can't believe in human kindness. The only +love he trusts is the warm touch of his mother, +and she will cast him off soon, and his kittenhood +will be over. Scipio will live as he can +on pickings from rubbish heaps and mice in +the haystacks and birds in the hedge. But it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span>is Daisy who will be unhappy about it, not +Scipio! Luckily, cats are not introspective.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Bill_Boundy">Bill Boundy</h3> + +<p>Have I told you about our Bill Boundy? I +have a rooted conviction that for a good many +people music is simply a noise that they hope +will soon stop. The reason why people will +hardly ever confess to being unmusical is +probably Shakespeare's unfortunate remark:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"The man that hath no music in himself,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils."</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>To me it seems very hard that people should +be under a cloud simply because of some defect +in their organs of Corti, or some other part of +the physical apparatus for hearing the exquisiteness +of tune in sound. However, Bill +Boundy is undoubtedly musical. He could +lean against the wall all day listening to Hob +practising. "It makes the skin of my head +run tight," he says, ecstatically and in +apology, when Joshua motions him stablewards.</p> + +<p>Bill is a treasure. I hope Joshua will never +sack him irrevocably. He had "a week home +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>to Munta" for Christmas, and is simply bursting +with conversation. Most of his anecdotes +turn upon his mother, a salty old Cornishwoman. +She is a pensioner, but quite properly +expects as much courtesy from the officials as +if she were any other member of the public.</p> + +<p>"I be waiting, my son," was her gentle +reminder through the post office window to +the negligent back of "some young Jack-a-napes." +The new clerk took no notice.</p> + +<p>"Didn't 'ee hear, son? I be standing."</p> + +<p>"No son of yours," snapped the sensitive +youth.</p> + +<p>"Must be somebody's son," urged the old +lady, calmly, "unless 'ee come out of incubator."</p> + +<p>Jack-in-Office is now quite briskly attentive +to Bill Boundy's mother.</p> + +<p>Bill is filled with admiration and a little +malice because John Thomas Trellagan's boy +has just qualified as a doctor.</p> + +<p>"Fair set up about it, John Tummas be. +'Rayther young, John,' says I. 'Shouldn't +like him monkeying with my innards, 'a believe.' +'Aw,' says John Tummas, a terrible +obliging man, 'they only practise on quite +young children at first, 'a believe.'"</p> + +<p>Joshua says Bill is "an ingratiating beggar." +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>Relations were strained because Bill +hadn't got the milking machine clean in +time, but while they speeded up Bill wheedled +Joshua into a good temper. He told him another +story of John Tummas Trellagan's boy. +He has had his first maternity case. The +mother and child are in a bad way, says Bill, +but Clarence still hopes to save the father.</p> + +<p>Bill always knows all that goes on in the +township. Now that paper and string cost so +much those who forget to take a cloth for their +bread have to pay a halfpenny extra. Bill was +there when the butcher took his revenge by +charging the baker's little messenger for the +paper he wrapped the dog's meat in. Thank +goodness, everyone in Petunia can take a joke.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Angry_Man">An Angry Man</h3> + +<p>I had chosen "Mary Barton" because Mrs. +Gaskell wrote it, and "Joan and Peter" because +no blue stocking with a care for her +reputation can afford to admit ignorance of +whatever book happens to be Wells's penultimate, +(or at any rate ante-penultimate), and +I felt that I deserved some champagne after +this solid-looking fare. I looked round the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>shelves gloomily, despairing of finding anything +frivolous in the scanty stock from which +in Petunia we draw for our week's entertainment. +"Pickwick Papers"—delightful, but +too old a friend. "Three Men in a Boat"—also +past its first youth. "Galahad Jones"—the +very best of its kind, but then we only +returned it last week. "Fatima"—um-m. +Well, it had the plain cover of a self-respecting +publisher; good print, plenty of conversation, +titled folk, a yacht. It sounded frivolous +enough. I took it.</p> + +<p>I do not regret my choice, though my +pleasure was scarcely due to the writer. There +is no need to tell you the story. It was about +a French-Arabian young lady dressed in a +burnous (yes!) and coins, who married a +tuberculous Scotch peer, and fell out with a +deep-dyed villain (also of the peerage), and +loved a doctor, the Bayard of his profession +and the saintliest scientist who ever fell into the +devilish hands of Arabian bandits agitating +(apparently) for the eight hour day, only to +be rescued by the lady in the burnous. No, +the fun was not in the story, entertaining as +its author's luxurious enjoyment of herself +undoubtedly was; the fun was entirely due +to reading in the wake of an angry man with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>a pencil, who took the whole thing seriously.</p> + +<p>He began on the first page. "A baronet +would not be called 'Lord,'" he reproves +mildly. You could see his feeling; purely +irritation with the printers. But as the story +progressed it became clear that it was not the +compositor who was at fault. "The authoress +evidently does not understand titles," he +snarls. "Earl Harben would not be referred +to as 'Lord Eric.'" He slashes his pencil +through "the Lady Eric," and bang goes "her +grace." Fury nearly obliterates the "gh" in +"straightened circumstances." Next he reasons +with the misguided person who has been +adjudged worthy of the dignity of print (my +own idea is that a doting husband paid for +the whole thing himself). "Not a burgomaster +<em>and</em> a maire," he pleads; "not in the same +town. One is German, the other French." +Other anomalies he passes with a mere flick +of the pencil, an exasperated sniff, as it were. +I stuck to the yarn solely for the pleasure of +savouring his hot fury, his cold despair, his +pleading, his rage.</p> + +<p>"The Presbyterians"—the infuriated man +nearly dug through the page—"do not pray +for the dead."</p> + +<p>And then came the (for me) sad page +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>whereafter comment ceased. He had pounced +on an exotic phrase.</p> + +<p>"Pure Yankee!" he exclaims, triumphantly, +and all is forgiven. I parted from him with +sorrow.</p> + +<p>His conclusion was wrong, of course, as I +could prove if I met him. No one ought to +accuse an American woman of not understanding +the British peerage!</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Alcibiades">Alcibiades</h3> + +<p>The pet problem is solved! A chum has +presented Hob with a small black pup, and, +as Hob found to his disgust that even +Prefects can't keep dogs at school, he brought +him home at the Michaelmas holidays.</p> + +<p>"What is his name?" demanded Daisy.</p> + +<p>"The Dam Dog," replied Hob.</p> + +<p>"What!" ejaculated Marjorie.</p> + +<p>"The Dam Dog. Oh, it's all right, mother. +It means 'dog that washes in a dam.' D.A.M., +you know."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Hob. I know you go to college, +but I can spell 'dam' myself—both ways. +You must find some other name for your dog."</p> + +<p>The little fellow kept us all awake the night +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>Hob left, and Joshua remarked in the morning +that he thought Marjorie might now be more +willing to let the name stand. However, Hob +wrote to say that he had decided upon +Alcibiades.</p> + +<p>This time it was Joshua who put his foot +down. He said that, if ever the time should +come (which he doubted) when the dog was +useful with sheep he was not going to make +a fool of himself by shouting "Alcibiades."</p> + +<p>So now "his name is Alcibiades," as Daisy +explains, "but we call him Peter."</p> + +<p>Peter is a lovable little chap. He barks, +prances, pounces, worries, with all the energy +possible to a little barrel-shaped body that has +only just ceased to wobble when it walks. +Yesterday the police-constable called with +news of our missing cow. Peter took the +opportunity to bite his trousers and pull his +boot laces, and then rolled over and over in +an ecstacy of self-importance.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="News">News</h3> + +<p>Don't apologize for sending "no news, only +views, blended with a cold in the head." I +never can see why letters should be newsy.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p> +<p>"There is nothing to write about; I am not +doing anything," people say. But if they are +not doing they are thinking, and our thoughts +are often more interesting to our friends than +events, which very likely have little connection +with ourselves at all. I've an idea that the +best correspondents, like the best essay writers, +are the egoists.</p> + +<p>I am not one of the best letter-writers, however. +In fact, I feel distinctly newsy. There +is always something going on in Petunia. For +instance, some more of our boys have returned +from the war. We were pleased! A turkey +was dressed in honour of one, and then the +date of arrival was several times postponed. +The problem of problems is—how long will a +turkey keep even in (home-made) cold storage +this weather? Any little unusual smell was +greeted anxiously with, "I hope that isn't the +turkey!"</p> + +<p>Twocott gave a strawberry fête and magic +lantern in honour of its soldiers, only the +strawberries didn't come, and the lantern was +missing. Still, the evening was a great success; +there was so much more time to talk and +play.</p> + +<p>But the policeman's wife has had the most +excitement. Her husband was away, and she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>was awakened by strange noises. At first she +thought it was smothered laughter, and then +she thought it was curses (not smothered); +presently there was a crash and a groan. In +the shadow of the lane opposite a writhing +mass of men bore something stealthily into the +darkness. Our policeman's wife is a heroine. +She resolved not to desert the children, and +buried her head in the bedclothes. In the +morning Mrs. Odgers, coming over to borrow +some dripping, was full of the kindness of the +men who had moved the piano into her new +house on their way home from the political +meeting at Buxton.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Amusing_Daisy">Amusing Daisy</h3> + +<p>I do wish all girls took a course of home nursing. +I've been nursing Daisy with one hand +and reading up the subject with the other, so to +speak. I can now sponge the patient with +almost no exertion to her and without letting +her get cold, at least, not very; and I can +change the sheets without moving her from +the bed. When Daisy gets better perhaps +Marjorie or Joshua will give me a turn, just +so that I can perfect my art. Daisy liked the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span>cap I wore to protect my hair; it decided her +to be a nurse herself some day. But the best +subject for amusing the restless little soul was +Peter—well, then, Alcibiades. I told Joshua +about the beautiful echo that would reverberate +"over the downs" if he called "Alcibiades," +but he said life was too short for +elocutionary exercises while you round up +sheep. "You mean your temper is too short," +observed Marjorie very justly.</p> + +<p>Of course, I couldn't have Peter in the room +catching scarlatina and spreading infection, +but Daisy was never tired of hearing about +him. We country people don't keep our +animals in the Zoo and visit them once a year. +They are part of our life, and we talk about +them accordingly. Dobbin, now—but I suppose +I mustn't? Well, well, to return to Peter. +Sometimes he would stand on a bench under +the window and put his paws on the sill, +eagerly looking in with his bright black eyes, +his ears pricked, his ecstatic tail hopefully +suggesting a walk. And then bones. He loves +bones, nice old gamey ones, disinterred with +excitement and later buried again with earnest +care. The ambition of his heart is to gnaw +them inside. He prances in proudly, tail up, +head up, bone on one side, and then at the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>reprimand, the transparent bubble of his innocence +pricked, he turns round (laughing, +doubtless, at his discomfiture), and makes for +his mat—when he doesn't defy you from under +the table. And to see him tugging at an +apron-string, legs set, eyes bulging!</p> + +<p>"What else does he do?" enquires Daisy +solemnly. I can't think of anything else, and I +say lamely:</p> + +<p>"Well, once he barked at a beetle."</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Obiit">Obiit</h3> + +<p>Peter is dead.</p> + +<p>Daisy is inconsolable. He was such an +engaging little fellow.</p> + +<p>He was the only dog that Marjorie ever +allowed inside.</p> + +<p>He is buried under the apple tree where he +used to forage so busily for bones.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Drought">The Drought</h3> + +<p>Last birthday Hob got a rather special penknife. +This disposed him to be generous with +his third and oldest.</p> + +<p>"If I give you this," he meditated to little +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>Allen from next door, "I suppose you will +cut yourself with it?"</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't," protested Allen. Hob gave +it to him. Last week when Daisy and I were +going to the library Allen came prancing up +to us.</p> + +<p>"I've got a cut finger," he exclaimed, +triumphantly. Then, suddenly remembering, +"But I didn't do it with Hob's knife." He +danced backward on his toes so as to face us +as we walked on.</p> + +<p>"I've been to town," offered Daisy.</p> + +<p>"See the aererplane? See the Cave? See +Father Christmas?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"Yes," bragged Daisy.</p> + +<p>"I ain't," said Allen, wistfully.</p> + +<p>And the harvest is so scanty that Father +Christmas will have to be very frugal if he is +to come at all to the homes of some working +men. Petunia looks very sad, bare and brown +and dusty. The sparrows hop about with +parched open beaks, waiting their turn when +the tap drips, and on Sundays the dejected +draught horses stand about in the trampled +dust while the hot wind soughs through the +stunted shrubs, and the sun blazes on bare +paddocks, and shimmers on the iron roofs. In +winter it is different. The light shines clearly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>on gay green crops and whitens the curving +blades, and the horses mosey companionably +along the roadsides, nibbling the grass, twitching +humorous nostrils, gambolling clumsily and +shaking their bell-bottomed pasterns, screaming +with laughter when sportively bitten by a +friend. Oh, man and beast love Petunia in +winter! But droughts really ought not to be +allowed. It is moving to think of ill-fed cattle +and disheartened workers.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"Then welcome each rebuff</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That turns earth's smoothness rough,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go,"</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>writes Browning. In the good seasons I find +this advice inspiring. When the rebuff begins +it seems less so. And when one thinks of the +returned soldiers who are only getting three +bushels to the acre (not even enough for seed!) +one remembers with tears that it is easier to +die for a country than to live for it. "Beginning +again" after the years at the war takes +resolution and courage, the willingness to take +risks, and the patience not to take them hastily, +that are as true tests of manhood as any they +had abroad.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Works_of_Simple_Simon_LLD">The Works of Simple Simon, LL.D., +D.Litt., Ph.D., M.B., B.S.</h2> +</div> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Emendation">An Emendation</h3> + +<p>Amid the welter of possible misprints in such +writers as Shakespeare, Shelley, and Coleridge, +one obvious correction would appear to have +been overlooked.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"Pussycat, Pussycat, where have you been?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I've been to London to look at the Queen.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I frightened a little mouse under her chair."</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>So runs one of the earliest-known (to me) and +best-loved poems.</p> + +<p>But is it credible that the romantic young +cat who trimmed his fur and hoisted his tail +and fared forth to catch a glimpse of +Majesty would create a vulgar scene in that +adored presence? Is it credible that, returning, +he should boast of his boorishness, like a +gutter-snipe making a <i lang="fr">pied de nez</i>? Nor can I +think that what he saw at Court turned our +gallant to a cynic, coarsely sniggering out his +disillusion. No, I prefer to believe that a +pedantic regard for mechanical accuracy of +metre has caused the printer to err. For +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>"frightened" I believe we should read +"caught."</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"I <em>caught</em> a little mouse under her chair."</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The astonishing thing is that no previous +editor seems to have thought of this. Of course, +there will be some dissenters.</p> + +<p>"What!" will exclaim the upholder of things +as they are, instead of as they might so much +better be, "Would you have us sentimentalize +the cat, and by pathetic fallacy pretend that +the young prig thought to 'serve his Queen'?"</p> + +<p>"Not at all," I reply. I will tell you my +idea. Having stepped softly and daintily into +the presence and slipped behind the tapestry +and out again near the throne, he gazed adoringly +at the lovely Queen, at her soft hair +under the crown, at her rosy fingers, her silk-clad +knee, the graceful brocaded train with +which his pussy-humour longed to play. And +then his eyes, big and black with the unaccustomed +splendour, suddenly espied the natural, +homely mouse licking his whiskers impudently +in the fancied security of the royal throne. +Pussycat was shocked and interested (like a +little boy with a dog in church), and he +watched and watched till he was all pussy, till +the Court faded and Pussycat's strategic eye +made him pounce before he thought.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span></p> +<p>And when the Ladies-in-Waiting fainted +because they dared not scream, and the Gentlemen-in-Waiting +dashed forward because they +thought Pussycat might scrunch the mouse +under the royal chair, Pussycat laid back his +ears and darted his eyes defensively, and with +a laughing growl laid it at the Queen's own +feet.</p> + +<p>And so when, safe back at home over a +saucer of milk, Pussycat told a reproachful +little boy where he had been, and the little boy +screamed with delight,</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there?"</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Pussycat, hugging himself for his naughty +boldness, and smiling to think how the Queen +had smiled, and vastly enjoying the sensation +he was making, burst out with his answer (and +that is the meaning of the irregular metre, the +long pause and stress):</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"I <em>caught</em> a little mouse under her chair!"</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Protest">A Protest</h3> + +<p>I have long regretted the publicity accorded +to the pieman incident—solely on the pieman's +account.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span></p> +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"Simple Simon met a pieman,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Going to the fair."</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Our family has always been noted for its +straightforward simplicity. I was hungry, I +was curious in pie-lore, and I made the request +which I conceive any youth, bred to gracious +treatment, would have made.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"Said Simple Simon to the pieman,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Let me taste your ware."</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>So might the Prince of Wales himself have +spoken. O, sordid, oh mercenary pieman! +Where was thy pride of bakery, where thy +manners? Thou did'st neither feed the hungry +nor wait with honest pride a meed of +praise. Thine not the artist soul, thine not +the joy of giving; thine, alas! but lust of pelf. +What does the paltry fellow reply?</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"Said the pieman to Simple Simon,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Show me first your penny."</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>With sorrow and scorn I gave answer +candidly:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"Said Simple Simon to the pieman,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">For sure I haven't any."</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>My simple dignity speaks for itself. A more +sophisticated youth would have demanded the +production of the hawker's licence.</p> +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span></p> + +<h3 id="Lancet">A "Lancet" Article</h3> + +<p>A subject on which I have several times +reflected is tuberculosis, and I believe that I +can cure it. An account of my method and of +how I hit upon it will doubtless gratify my +readers.</p> + +<p>I have always held that Nature's avenue of +healing is the lips. In my youth I studied +physics, and passed the Senior—or was it the +Junior? Anyway, the idea came to me of +disintegrating the molecules of which the +bacillus or germ is composed. To be precise, +I meant to grab the nitrogen out of them. +Unfortunately, I recollected that there is +nitrogen in the tissues as well, and I did not +feel certain that I could disintegrate one without +the other.</p> + +<p>My present device is strictly scientific. +Beginning with the principle that cure is to be +through the lips, and that the goal is to be +the elimination of the bacilli, I asked myself +how they could be extracted. Not with forceps, +that was clear. Then, in the course of +my extensive reading I was much struck in +"The English at the North Pole," with the +adhesion of nails, knives, and other steel and +iron ware to the magnetic pole. "What," +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>thought I to myself, "if I were to magnetize +the bacilli?" Of course, the tubercle bacilli +contain no iron, but iron can be taken through +the lips, and some of it would roost on the +germs in passing. I followed this procedure, +and then, having opened the patient's mouth +to its fullest extent, dangled a magnet down +the throat. On withdrawing the instrument it +was found that 149,563,769 tubercles, or more +than can dance on the point of a needle, adhered +to it. No other treatment is necessary, +though the operation needs to be performed +daily (at a fee of £10 10s. per time) for +twelve months. The operator should wear a +mask, and should boil his face and hands +thoroughly after each operation.</p> + +<p>At the end of this time the patient will be +in a very different condition from what he was +before.</p> + +<p>I tried this treatment on T.B. He was 96 +years old, with a previous history of fractured +skull and varicose veins. The epidermis of +his nose was found to be a good deal reddened. +I administered three ounces of iron, and +applied the magnet. The operation was entirely +successful. There is no prognosis, because +the patient choked. Through what? +<em>Through the flocking of the germs to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>magnet.</em> This proves that the dose of iron +was too strong. Care must be taken to prevent +the magnetization of too many bacilli at the +same operation.</p> + +<p>I confidently look forward to receiving large +sums for this treatment, especially if well-advertised +in gullible quarters.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Application">An Application of Psychology to Medicine</h3> + +<p>The insistent demands of Psychology (too +long regarded with jealousy) to be called in +to the aid of Medicine have at length been +recognized. <i lang="la">In corpore sano</i> is an easy matter +compared with <i lang="la">mens sana</i>. The medical man +soon learns to prescribe his nostrums, and to +draw up a diet which shall suit the palate of +his patient; the very skilled can even hit +upon the exact vintage which shall be most +acceptable. The mentality is also diagnosed +with as much insight as can be expected; but +now the treatment is less easy to decide. The +book-list proves harder than the wine-list, for +here the doctor is on less familiar ground. It +is at this point that the psychologist's work is +of value. Disciples of Æsculapius will be glad +to receive the following typical book-list communicated +to us by a rising young physician +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>of South Australia (a remote province of our +Empire in the outlying parts of the Southern +Hemisphere) who has used it with success.</p> + +<p>First week of treatment.—Letting the mind +down gently. Works by Ethel Dell, Gertrude +Page.</p> + +<p>Second week.—Mind to be lulled. "Just +David," "Pollyanna." (In very obstinate +cases, <i>e.g.</i>, returned soldiers, "Jessica's First +Prayer" and "Eric, or Little by Little" may +be added.)</p> + +<p>Third week.—Stage of acute self-pity, to +be discharged by weeping over woes of others. +The "Elsie" books, "The Wide, Wide, +World." Confessions (anybody's).</p> + +<p>Fourth week.—Patient needs rousing. This +is a very critical period, and the psychosis of +the individual must be carefully studied. No +general prescription can be given, but the +following suggestions are made: For elderly +Methodist spinster, Victoria Cross novel (preferably +that alleged to have set a bookstall +alight); jaded divorcé (or divorcée), "Golden +Heart Novelettes"; case of delirium tremens, +<cite>Patriot</cite>, or other temperance organ. President +of the Liberal Union: "<cite>Direct Action</cite>," +"Sabotage." (If these fail, get him to make +up his income-tax return.) Member of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span>I.W.W.: Probate lists; failing these, the +speeches of Irvine and Hughes will be found +efficacious. Doctor (difficult case, especially +at night): works of Mrs. Baker-Eddy, or the +present article.</p> + +<p>Fifth week.—Patient annoyed to hear he is +looking better. Mild case: Emerson's Essays +(one to be taken after each meal). Obstinate +case: Degree 1, the Bible; degree 2 (probably +a lodge patient), advise to make peace +with God, and send for a clergyman.</p> + +<p>Sixth week.—Patient returns to his wallowing: +Hegel or Bertrand Russell; Thompson +or Lodge, and "Science from an Easy Chair"; +"Structure and Growth" or "Psychology for +Little Tots"; Wells or Charles Garvice; <cite>London +Punch</cite> or <cite>The Pink 'Un</cite>; "Horner's Penny +Stories" and the <cite>Sunday Circle</cite>; all according +to taste.</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="National_Bulletin">Our National Bulletin</h3> + +<p>At Fremantle the observant academic on his +travels to the Antipodes notes the rush of his +Australian fellow-passengers for a large, +bright pink compendium. "Ah!" he thinks +to himself, "that national paper of theirs!" +and at the first opportunity he purchases a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>copy in order to study the manners and customs +of the inhabitants.</p> + +<p>"Bai Jove!" he gasps weakly, as he opens +on a huge and brutal Norman Lindsay cartoon, +a quite unnecessarily unpleasant sketch +by Mack or Souter, or (as <cite>The Bulletin</cite> itself +might say) at the allegedly humorous +caricatures of "Poverty Point," or "Sundry +Shows." On the Red Page he is upset to find +Looney's Shakespeare theory taken seriously, +the sacred laws of punctuation explicitly and +at length, but without explanation, denied, and +(in "A Satchel of Books") a snub administered +to E. V. Lucas, while space is devoted +to analysis and appreciation of some unheard-of +Australian writer. He considers the tone +of the Society gossip columns "most regrettable" +("vulgar" is his word if no Australian +is in earshot), and when he turns to +Aboriginalities for local colour, his refined +literary palate is outraged at the—the travesty +on the English language which he finds. There +is perhaps the story of an egg-stealing crow, +"whose black nibs" carries away "bunches" +of "this fruit." And the whole paper is +like that! Even "Plain English!" From the +number of abuses attacked, in provocative captions +like "Australia for the Asiatics," "Murder +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>at £4 11s. 3d. a Time," it appears that +nothing, except perhaps an occasional piece +of work by a <cite>Bulletin</cite> young man, goes +right in Australia. Unless our academic is +a brave man, with sound missionary instincts, +he writes at once to resign his appointment. +He really must refuse to herd with these callow +vulgarians.</p> + +<p>Is <cite>The Bulletin</cite> really characteristic of +Australia? In the long run, and with modifications, +yes. It is the one paper which +every good Australian, at home or abroad, +reads, and reads with gusto. It contains argument, +comment, or anecdote about nearly every +subject on which the Australian is interested. +Its opinion may be wrong and its manner +blatant, but there is never any doubt that it +has an opinion, and it is never dull for a single +sentence. But it is surely the <i lang="la">reductio ad +absurdum</i> of some, as well as the highest power +of other, of our characteristics. Like the +comic writers of the eighteenth century, it +holds the mirror up to nature—Australian +nature—and its mirror is always unsentimental +and sometimes distorting.</p> + +<p>Young nations are self-confident—and so is +<cite>The Bulletin</cite>; self-confident and bumptious +and cock-sure. The Cheerful Cherub must +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>certainly have had this paper in mind when +he wrote:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I always envy editors</div> + <div class="verse indent2">With minds both deep and bright;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They always feel so positive</div> + <div class="verse indent2">That what they think is right.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Whatever the subject, when the hail of argument +ceases, the pulverized reader wonders +why he had not agreed to this before; or, if +he still has a doubt or objection, he keeps it +to himself, because obviously it is all his foolishness. +Indeed that is <cite>The Bulletin</cite> attitude +in every subject and in every paragraph. +"It am It, and the other fellow is a fool, most +probably a damned fool." <cite>The Bulletin</cite> really +has convictions, too; its violence isn't entirely +explained, as the psycho-analysts explain +swearing, as an attempt to make up for the +defects of genius by the violence of style. No, +<cite>The Bulletin</cite> knows its happy-go-to-football-match +average Australian; it is perfectly +aware that to make him listen to reason you +must (and this is the reason both for our yellow +press and our stump oratory) hold +him by the scruff of the neck while you shout +your lesson in his ear. And so <cite>The Bulletin</cite> +hits you in the eye with its red cover, and, +having caught your attention, rapidly emits a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>brisk succession of crisp ideas, conveyed in a +style of studied unexpectedness. It is terse +and trenchant and clear, though no one could +call it nervous or sympathetic or scholarly or +refined. Those responsible have had extraordinary +success in achieving uniformity of +manner through all their many regular and +paragraph writers. The essentials are something +to say (captious for preference), and +trenchancy in saying it. Probably in no +other paper of its size are there fewer tiresome +circumlocutions. Even Death is briskly +handled. "Died last week ..." begins +the paragraph. <i lang="la">De mortuis</i>, too, not <i lang="la">nil nisi +bonum</i>, but whatever you like. <cite>The Bulletin</cite> +doesn't think much of classical learning, +and perhaps it has thrown a courteous precept +or two overboard at the same time.</p> + +<p>But the paper has a code of its own, an air +of sea-green incorruptibility and impartiality, +and a fearlessness in defying the conventional, +which, even if it is sometimes only the aggressiveness +of crudity, makes its value more than +that of a <i lang="fr">succès de scandale</i>. Politically it +stands for two or three principles, which are +rooted (and which it assisted to root) in Australian +conviction, and for two or three others +which will probably become so. It stands for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span>a White Australia and Protection and Self-Defence; +it is anti-Imperial and anti-Party +and anti-Hughes, but no one can doubt that +it is always and wholly pro-Australian. It is +the critic of all parties, with an opinion as far +removed from stick-in-the-mud Liberalism as +it is from the Party that Declines to Work. +Its treatment of Royalty is probably characteristic +of the bulk of Australians. It wishes +us to understand that it holds no brief for +Royalty, but that it likes and respects "the +Princelet" for himself, and wishes it could +rescue him from the pitiful efforts at entertainment +of the vulgar Sassiety and official +classes. "Refer to us for information on +Teddy's tastes. Young Windsor and we are +pals," it rather patronizingly suggests. +Imagine H.R.H. having a <cite>Bulletin</cite> and Bohemian +good time with Harrison O. and +Henry Horsecollar and Pat O'Maori and the +rest! (Though occasionally one wonders +whether they live in so hectic a Bohemia as +they would have us believe.) For the pompous +and the stupid they have no pity; to Gaud +Mayors and Gaud Mayoresses and Gent Helps +they mete out treatment savage or contemptuous, +according to the degree of offence. Pitiless +publicity and offensive epithet are <cite>The</cite> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span><cite>Bulletin's</cite> ungenerous treatment of inexperience +and human weakness alike with incompetence +and considered roguery and political +opposition.</p> + +<p>The aspiring Australian inevitably submits +his literary productions to <cite>The Bulletin</cite>. Its +frank and wholesome judgments are what he +wants. Its reviews of literary works are in +accordance with the best typically Australian +opinion, though in its admiration for the +vigorous and the original and the characteristic +it fails to appreciate some of +the fundamentally sound and admirable +achievement which the conventional often +represents. The sound discipline it imposes +upon writers of verse is in striking contrast +with this. In prose, too, of course, it insists +on grammatical English, but scholarship, and +much that scholarship implies, are alien to <cite>The +Bulletin</cite> (and to the young Australian?) +temperament. It is so much easier and more +flattering to ignorance to assume that mere +common-sense can take precedence of intelligence +which is instructed and disciplined. In +noticing a work on sociology, ostentatiously to +give its author—and one so well known—as +"a" Professor J. J. Findlay, is a perverse +and provincial parade of ignorance and detachment +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>which discredit the writer. A reviewer +should at least know the literature and +personnel of his subject.</p> + +<p><cite>The Bulletin</cite> is full of energy and character +and youth. Like youth, in its horror +of being Wowserish it assumes a bold bad air, +but fundamentally it has the wholesomeness +as well as the intolerance of youth. With the +passage of years perhaps its intolerance and +its slang will wear off together, for most of us +do not want to see the rise of a mongrel Australian +tongue akin to the worst kind of Americanese. +It deals with everything from sport +to business, from literature to politics, and all +with an absence of qualm as to its ability that +of itself inspires confidence. That it excludes +certain types of writer is no reproach, for +unity requires selection. Despite the following +imaginary list, the present writer is graciously +pleased to admit that he for one would +not like to do without his weekly <cite>Bulletin</cite>.</p> + + +<p class="center p2">ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>Elia: Using "Roast Pig"; returning "Dream +Children" and "Poor Relations" for decent burial.... +R.L.S.: Yarn has the right stuff in it. +Keep on.... "Paradise Lost": Send a couple +of bullock drays for the M.S. What's it all about, +anyway?... Walt Whitman: You can't get +away with that verse, not in this paper.... +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>A.A.M.: Joke feeble. You might try it on London +<cite>Punch</cite>.... Alice Meynell: What do we care +about your blooming kids?... Sage of Chelsea: +Got a grouch about something, haven't you? Work it +off on the woodheap.... Walter Pater: Take it +away.... Robert B.: Just misses being a shocking +example.... Bagehot: Laodicean stuff not +in our line. For Gawsake lose your temper sometimes.... +Bernard Partridge: Drawing accurate, but +not enough kick in the figures. So the holy lady with +the wings is Peace, is she?... W.W.:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"A primrose by the river's brim,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A simple primrose was to him,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And it was nothing more."</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Beats us what more it ought to have been—two primroses? +Our Temperance Editor protests.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Nigger">Nigger</h3> + + +<h4>I.</h4> + +<p>Master was away all the afternoon; it was +very dull. He did not come back in the evening. +Nigger was uneasy. Once during the +night he slipped his chain and went in search.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he'll be in when I get back," he +thought hopefully.</p> + +<p>And later: "He's sure to be here for breakfast."</p> + +<p>But he wasn't.</p> + +<p>Nigger searched every room and sniffed the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span>furniture. No master. Nigger was lonely. +He cuddled up on the forbidden cushions of +the garden-seat with Simonette, waiting for +master to come whizzing round the corner. He +opened an eye at a noisy cycle, and cocked his +ear for a motor. He trotted up the drive, he +wheeled sharply round to the stables, he cut +back, barking, to master's room. No master.</p> + +<p>After a little dejected self-examination +Nigger paid a rapid visit to several rabbit-holes. +Whatever the strain, duty must be +done. He came back to be comforted.</p> + +<p>"I know," he yapped joyously, "he's afraid +to come home; he's hiding behind a tree."</p> + +<p>But he wasn't.</p> + +<p>"Then I darn well hope," snapped Nigger, +"that they'll shut him up for a day when he +does turn up." He sighed heavily.</p> + +<p>But they didn't. They shut Nigger up instead.</p> + + +<h4>II.</h4> + +<p>The sun shone on the pale sodden summer +grass, and the raindrops on the trees glistened. +The clouds were rolling back over the plain +and the sea. Nigger wanted a walk. He +danced down the drive, and looked back to see +if anyone were following. No one. Nigger +wagged his tail and tried again. The invitation +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span>was ignored. Nigger drooped his tail +(what there was of it) and came back.</p> + +<p>Simonette got her coat; Nigger wagged; an +umbrella; Nigger sprang into the air and spun +round and round and barked. Simonette +would indicate the general direction of the +walk, and he, Nigger, could introduce all the +variety. Simonette went over the hill; so did +Nigger—and right and left, too; he knew all +the <em>best</em> rabbit-holes.</p> + +<p>But Simonette heard him tell little kennel-bound +Kiwi, "Oh, just a middling walk. Better +than nothing, of course. But if only a +man had been here...!"</p> + +<p>And since master came back Nigger hasn't +even spoken to Simonette.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="Miscellaneous">Miscellaneous</h2> +</div> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Queen_City">The Queen City of the South</h3> + +<p>Writers about the Old World can take so +much for granted. Even the Colonial knows +what to expect when the scene is laid in +Tooting, Maida Vale, or the <em>Boul' Mich'</em>. He +is intimate with some of the geographical details, +and with the social atmosphere of very +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>different parts of London and Paris. Regent +Street, Clapham Junction, and the Edgeware +Road are as atmospheric for him as the Domain +and Toorak. The writer of the New +World has no such advantage. He cannot be +certain that even the names of his capital cities +will be recognized, and he knows that +few readers abroad (abroad, for him, is the +Northern Hemisphere) will care to learn even +the general outlines of God-knows-what insignificant +citylet. Yet Australian States and +cities, nay, the very suburbs, are almost as +broadly distinct and as superficially varied as +anything in the Old World, even though they +are not as mellow or as complex; and our +citizens are as much moulded by their surroundings.</p> + +<p>Some years ago Foster Fraser tried to help +us out as he whizzed through each capital. +Thus he labelled Sydney "for pleasure," Melbourne +"for business," and Adelaide "for +culture." But Adelaide is the only city that is +satisfied with his judgment. All six capitals +bridle with pleasure when "the Queen City of +the South" is mentioned, which, as any South +Australian will tell you, is absurd; every unbiassed +person knows that the phrase is only +a descriptive variant for Adelaide.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p> +<p>The only superiority freely accorded to +Adelaide by her sister cities is that of piety. +The reason is partly the number of her +churches, but far more, I think, a malicious +disinclination to let drop the legend of our +mayor who veiled with decent calico our Venus +and our Hercules. Some of our many later +statues more rightly bring a blush to the +aesthetic cheek of the young person, but not, +alas, because they are unclad.</p> + +<p>South Australia is a long, narrow State +running down the middle of the continent +from the centre to the sea, from which, and +her port, Adelaide is not seven miles distant. +The cattle tracks of the dry, hot (and cold) +Far North, and all the railways through the +wheat and sheep and copper areas, and all +good roads everywhere, lead towards Adelaide. +That Queen City herself lies like a jewel on +the broad and beautiful plain, in the bend of +the arm of hills which sweep inland from the +shore. The heart of it is a square mile of +broad streets intersecting at right angles, +bound by gardened terraces, and secured from +the rough jostling and elbowing of the suburbs +by broad belts of park land sacred to browsing +cows and horses, cricket, tennis, football, and +bowls. East Terrace has specialized in markets, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>for it lies nearest the hills and the vegetable +gardens; West Terrace faces the monuments +and the sad little mounds of a cemetery. +Within these confines are five tree-shaded +lawns where children may play, and seats for +those who choose to watch the gay flower-beds. +To the south are crowded streets and populous +lanes, lined mainly with dwellings; to the +middle and north business has developed.</p> + +<p>Three or four shopping streets for womenkind, +ten or twelve streets of offices for men, +and some of warehouses and factories, are so +far enough for this hub of the State. King +William Street bisects it from north to south, +lined with banks and shops and huge hotels +(huge for us, you know), and cutting it at +right angles is Rundle Street, a kind of +Drapers' Row. Next to Rundle Street, and +parallel with it, is North Terrace, where the +chambers of doctors and dentists intermingle +with warehouses. The Terrace is broad and +treed and gardened like a boulevard, and even +along its garden and pedestrian side buildings +have been allowed. Here are the Railway +Station and Parliament House, and, east of +King William Street, Government House +behind its palm trees and lawns, the Public +Reading Rooms and Library, the Art Gallery, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>the University, and the big Exhibition Building, +which forms one entrance to an Oval +and Showground. Still further east is the +long red-bricked General Hospital, with its +wide, shady lawn, and the ironwork entrance +to the lovely Botanic Gardens.</p> + +<p>At the back of all these, between sloping +banks of grass and flowers, flows the Torrens. +There is a little embarrassment about showing +our river to visitors, lest they should wish to +row too far west or east, and we South Australians +do not care to expose our limitations +to dwellers on Thameside. The fact is that +our river has to be carefully saved up and +dammed back for the purpose, and once a year +we empty it for excavation and repairs. Some +precisians call it a lake—an artificial lake. +One midwinter, when the mud-banks gleamed +grey and slimy, and only a narrow trickle +forced a way along the middle of the bed, we +were subjected to civic humiliation. The +Governor-General announced a hasty and unpremeditated +visit. Every effort was made to +fill the Torrens against his Excellency's arrival, +but despite all that man could do we +had to hurry the representative of majesty +past a very meagre stream.</p> + +<p>This north end of the city is undoubtedly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>the loveliest. Here the line of lower roofs is +broken by towers and spires and miniature +sky-scrapers rising above the quaint architecture +of a cruder time and art. And it is over +this north end of the city, with its corrugated +sky-line, its river and its lawns, that the slender +Cathedral looks, standing on a hill above +churches and houses whose bases are lost in +greenery. East and south are pretty suburbs +where each house stands in its own garden, but +only in North Adelaide are the homes so +spacious, so serene, so certain of their beauty +and their fitness. Oddly enough, this retreat +of wealth and leisure has for western neighbour +the region where the gas and soap and +bricks are made, where hides are tanned and +laundry work is done. But then North Adelaide +holds up her skirts with jewelled hands +and stands clear of the squalor of Bowden and +Hindmarsh by a whole park width.</p> + +<p>When electric cars were brought to Adelaide +the Municipal Tramways Trust had the +humorous notion, or perhaps it was only the +business instinct, fortified by democratic principle, +of whizzing the North Adelaide cars +down the hill and round to Bowden. And so +pretty misses with books or racquets or clubs +rub shoulders with stout old parties laden with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>string bags and parcels, and dingy women are +bitterly amused when their grubby offspring +wipe their boots on the dresses of remote and +silken ladies. The fastidious gaze reluctantly +on the lashless, pink-lidded outdoor patients, +on the monstrous and deformed. Oh, the +classes meet the masses in the Hill Street car!</p> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<h3 id="Literature">A Literature in the Making</h3> + +<p>Criticism often seems presumptuous, yet until +we have examined and weighed, how can we +set a price—appreciate? For us who are but +amateurs, and who have taken our growth in +a province, the attempt to fix the price (as +against assessing the value for us, which is +always legitimate, for it reveals our own position +rather than the subject's) of the great +writers of the world is true presumption; our +legitimate training in criticism we get by exercising +our discrimination on our unfortunate +contemporaries and compeers, the not-yet, the +perhaps not-to-be, acclaimed.</p> + +<p>In 1916, G. Hassell & Son published a small +brown pocket volume, "Poems, Real and +Imaginative," by M. R. Walker. Like so +many other little books between 1914 and 1919, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>it was intended to aid the funds of the Red +Cross; unlike, on the other hand, so many of +its companions, it really deserved for its own +sake the sympathetic attention of all literary +Australians. <cite>The Bulletin</cite> was rather off-handed +with the little stranger, for <cite>The +Bulletin</cite>, hardy parent that it is, often +favours the lusty, the clamorous, even the +violent and rude, more than the child with the +low, sweet voice; but there must have been +many who pondered the twenty-four sets of +verses in the wee book, for it ran into a second +edition.</p> + +<p>It has been out long enough now for us to +estimate it impartially.</p> + +<p>Not a mine of pure gold, it is good enough +to be mistaken for such by the uncritical, bad +enough to have its qualities entirely overlooked +by the supercilious. All is very fair verse, +bits are true poetry; but perhaps no piece, +however short, is pure poetry throughout.</p> + +<p>The topics are the simple, natural, age-old +topics of the poet—the sea and the moon and +the mountains, love, friendship, and country. +Of these Miss Walker is most adequate to the +first group, to "Sea Pictures," "A June Evening," +"To the Ouse." Read this fragment of +blank verse from "Half-moon Bay":—</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span></p> +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent24">High overhead</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The forest stretching to the seven peaks</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is beautiful in slopes of wilding gum,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wattle, and box. The sad shea-oaks,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Huddled together down a windy ridge,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whisper their troublous sighing to the waves</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A thousand feet below.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The coves and inlets of the circling bay</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are floored with giant pebbles, and the wash</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Goes sweeping up the deep rock-riven cracks</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To break in shallows on the level ledge,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And drop again in sparkling waterfall.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The felicities of picture and of sound in this +are typical of her art, but it misses the sunshine +and open-air buoyancy of "At Maria +Island."</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh the yellow broom is growing</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On the sand-banks by the sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the breezes blowing, blowing,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Mingle with the waters' flowing</div> + <div class="verse indent4">In a haunting melody.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There the gulls are rising, falling,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To the heaving of the tide,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Listen to them calling, calling,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To the fishermen a-hauling</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Nets, out where the schooners ride.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Perhaps "At Maria Island" comes nearest to +maintaining throughout the same technical +level, and the same trend of theme. A short +and convenient instance of the vague but disconcerting +shifting of the direction of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span>thought, and a certain incompleteness or fragmentariness, +that characterize most of the +pieces, is "Sea Pictures."</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Know you the swinging of wild water after storm,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The racing breeze that sings along the sand,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And rocks, deep-flung, where sea-birds love to swarm,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Wave-weary for the land?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There are fair nights in summer on the sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And moonlight falling gentlier on the waves</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Than echo's sighs, borne back again to me</div> + <div class="verse indent2">From dim, sea-haunted caves.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Here the thought does not march from one +verse to the next; rather there is a turning +away from the question that links poet and +reader in eager sympathy, to a mood of brooding, +personal reminiscence. In "Blue" the +jerkiness is conscious, and is covered by a conceit +impossible to the serious poetic mood. In +"There is a Land" it manifests itself as +obscurity. Poetry is in the air, but the poet +cannot freely draw breath. In the eighteen +lines of this poem are examples of nearly all +Miss Walker's qualities; there is inspiration, +but inadequately expressed, a passionate +clutching at a meaning that eludes the words, +and comes out rather baldly, as in the line,</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah Death; and some pass on, that know not and are blind.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span></p> +<p>There is technical failure—and technical +felicity.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent30">... the soul</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Cries to the silence with a living cry—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A whisper that goes by upon the wind,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A breaking wave upon some lonely shore,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The list'ning hush of mountains in the dawn,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And lo! the Voice! An echo in the soul!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And then—the level stillness of the days.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The irregularity in the pulse of the thought +is found also in some constructions which, +though grammatical, are unexpected and not +at first obvious, where, for instance, we were +expecting one object to be described, and find +that the epithet applies to another, the thought +having moved on; it is also reflected in a +technique so frequent as to become a mannerism:—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent30">... a Voice</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Calling unto its own, that, oft, the soul ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As sullen seas that, sweeping o'er some reef ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where, low, the boobyallas keep....</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>These halts and returns would not be noticed +in longer poems, or in the poems read separately; +but the ear of the student begins to +wait for them, as it does for some inevitable +voice-pauses at line-endings where the meaning +should trip on.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent16">... tree-guarded from the light</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Flinging its wide farewell across the sky.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> +<p>(This also is an instance of the unexpected construction +referred to above; we are expecting +a further description of "deep wells of +shade," what we get is an adjectival clause +about "light"; perhaps it is the voice-pause +that gives this feeling and sends us back again +upon our construing.)</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">... the fishermen a-hauling</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nets,</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>in the quotation above also pulls us up with a +jerk.</p> + +<p>There are other tricks of manner that grow +monotonous. "O Moon," "O Son of Essex," +"Ah, Love," "Ah, Death," "Oh have you +ever stood alone to watch ..." Apostrophe +and exclamation so reiterated point to +poverty of expression, to a labouring to say +what cannot get itself said. And there are +commonplace lines, prose in metre—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O moon, that risest now, how beautiful thou art.</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Poor little girl, you did not wish to die.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Perhaps there is bathos—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A little, wandering, broken-hearted child.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>But not all this can do away with the many +triumphs, the recurrent charms for eye and +ear—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Thy waters washing into shallow pools ...</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p> +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent28">... a moorèd boat</div> + <div class="verse indent8">Asway upon the idle-swinging tide ...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The islands to the north were bathed in sleep,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Their cliffs stood out in sunshine to the sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Only the murmur, murmur, of the waves,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Broke the long silence unto you and me.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The songs and the scenes and the thought +are not joyous. Beauty of nature, and loves +of friends, or man and maid, induce wistful +thoughts. The sadness may be explicit—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But in the days, ay me! the empty days,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The long, long days that lead to no fireside,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Philosophy's a thing to call a friend,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To hold to, and to cherish, lest one fail,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Afraid before the vista of the years.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Or it may sigh itself out in falling cadence, as +in the song on page 24, where what should +be a sigh of ecstacy falls on the ear like a foreboding. +But the melancholy is never morbid. +It may be hopeless, but it is resigned and controlled +and quietly courageous.</p> + +<p>Australia is too young to produce great +poetry, for that never blossoms from unacclimatized +minds. But the necessary conditions +are gradually emerging. Australians are increasingly +in sympathy with their country and +its qualities: its sunlight, its seas and mountains +and plains and deserts, its sheep and its +wheat and forests and minerals, are all giving +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span>out their emanations into the mental medium +where poetry forms; there, too, our traditions +are being made or absorbed. We have not +yet the plethora of elements from which the +great poetic souls take shape, but crystals more +or less characteristic are being precipitated +from such material as there is. Those of to-day +may be small and cloudy and faultily-shapen, +but they presage a beauty and a perfection +in the poetry of the future.</p> + + +<p class="center p4"> +G. HASSELL & SON.<br> +PRINTERS & PUBLISHERS,<br> +CURRIE ST., ADELAIDE. +</p> + + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75957 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75957-h/images/cover.jpg b/75957-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..697221c --- /dev/null +++ b/75957-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5dba15 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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