Standing on our front door-step you can see our garden running down at a
moderate speed to our front gate. Or, conversely, standing at the front
gate, you can see it mounting in a leisurely fashion to the front door.
In either case it consists of two narrow strips of lawn bisected by a
well-kept perambulator drive. Beyond the grass on either side blooms a
profusion of bless-my-soul-if-I-haven't-forgotten-agains and other
quaintly named old-world English flowers. On the left-hand strip of
lawn, looking gatewards, is the metal pin to which the captive golf-ball
is tied. On the right is the pear-tree, to which later on we have to
affix a captive pear.
"What I like about the garden," I said to Araminta when we first moved
in, "is the fact that it is in front, so that visitors, instead of
saying in a perfunctory way, 'Have you got a garden, too? How
delightful!' will be forced to murmur, 'How sweet the clover smelt on
your lawn as we came up the drive. What a perfectly entrancing
golf-ball.' If I must go to the trouble and expense of keeping up a
private pleasaunce I want everybody to see the pleasantry of it at
once."
"Swank," replied Araminta. She is absurdly early-Georgian in the matter
of repartee.
Last Saturday I determined to mow the lawn. I put on my oldest suit of
clothes with the now fashionable slit-trouser leg, fastened the green
bonnet to the front of the car, and wheeled it out of the tool garage.
Araminta went out, saying airily that she would be back to tea. After a
little trouble I induced the instrument to graze the left-hand pasture
as far as the hobbled Colonel. Then, feeling that my shoulders wanted
opening a bit, I went indoors and fetched a brassie-spoon. I suppose I
must have been striking with unusual vehemence, but anyway, in playing a
good second to the fourteenth green, I sent the pin flying out of the
ground. The Colonel broke his parole and dashed rapidly to the topmost
boughs of the pear-tree on the right, carrying the rest of the apparatus
with him. There was nothing to do but to follow him, spoon in hand.
It was soon evident that the pear-tree had been over-looked during
spring-cleaning, for the foliage, though very luxuriant, was in an
extremely soiled condition.
I had just located the deserter when I heard feminine voices of unknown
proprietorship. It is the habit of quick masterful decisions in
important crises that has given to Englishmen an empire on which the sun
never holes out, and I decided instantly to remain where I was. If it
had been a mashie I might have faced them, but a brassie-spoon out of a
lie like that--no.
The callers came slowly up the path, rang the bell, chattered to the
servant, left cards, and retired. Without much trouble I could have
brained them with the brassie-spoon as they passed beneath me. But some
odd impulse of chivalry restrained me. It is blunders like these that
have wrecked the plans of the greatest generals. Just as they opened the
gate who should appear but--of course--Araminta? "Oh, I'm so glad I've
caught you!" she cried. "You _must_ stay and have tea now. We'll have it
in the garden. My husband's somewhere about. He said he was going to mow
the lawn, but I suppose he was too lazy." Lazy, indeed! Ha, ha! So like
a woman.
Peering angrily with one eye out of my leafy ambush, I tried hard to
attract Araminta's attention, but all in vain. Chairs were brought out
and tea came with some particularly cool-looking sandwiches; cups were
filled; spoons clinked; steadily the afternoon wore on. Flecks of fleecy
white cloud chased each other in the blue-domed heaven above me. From
far away rose the hum of the mighty city. In the next-door garden but
two I could see a happy family circle partaking of light sustenance. I
think it was nearly an hour-and-a-half before those infernal women left.
Araminta conducted them to the gate, said a lingering good-bye, and
wafted them down the road with wavings and smiles. When they were safely
off the premises I slithered down and confronted her, looking dignified
and stern, still holding the ball in one hand and the wooden club in the
other.
Instead of bursting into tears, as I had expected, she went off into a
fit of idiotic giggles. "You--you don't mean to say you've been up in
that tree all tea-time! You are too funny. And you've got a great black
splodge over one eye. Do go and wash."
With an effort I controlled my rage. "In future," I said coldly, "when I
am--er--mowing the lawn, visitors will be served with tea in the second
drawing-room."
"All right, dear," said Araminta; "and in future, when you are mowing
the lawn, you shall have yours taken up into the pear-tree."
Women have no sense of humour.
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