AN EXPERIENCE.
Florence Brand presented herself at her sister’s house on the following
morning, to take her to a large registry office, “You’ll see plenty of
girls there,” she said. “You must be prepared to wait a while if you
are told that a suitable article is not then on the premises.”
“I suppose I shall get home before my half-past-one dinner-hour?” said
Lucy.
“It is not in the power of woman to prophesy when you will get home,”
Florence answered. “But surely,” she cried, as her little nephew came
in equipped for a walk, “you do not dream of taking Hugh with us?”
“Certainly I do!” answered Lucy. “It may not be much of a pleasure for
him; but he is good and patient. Indeed, there is nothing else to be
done.”
“Cannot you leave him with your charwoman?” asked Florence. “Don’t you
think she is respectable?”
“Hugh,” said his mother, “run upstairs and find my gloves in my
bedroom. Yes,” she replied to her sister as the child ran off, “Mrs.
Sim is perfectly respectable as a charwoman. But I know nothing of her
as regards children. She might think it kind to indulge Hugh with lumps
of sugar, or by telling him stories of ghosts or murders.”
“Well,” said Florence, “you think I am hard on the lower orders; but
I’m sure I’d leave my youngsters in their charge for a few hours—in
one’s own house too, where there can be nothing dirty or infectious. I
don’t know much more of the nurses I hire than you do of your Mrs. Sim.”
“I could trust Hugh with Pollie without any misgiving,” answered Mrs.
Challoner. “I knew her ways with him as I know my own.”
She said no more, though she might have added that nothing but bitter
compulsion would induce her to trust her darling to the tender
mercies—mental and moral—of many women not of the “lower orders,” even
of Florence herself!—whose motherly methods were by no means those of
her sister.
The registry office was kept in an old-fashioned house in an
old-fashioned street. A few men, with that undefinable stamp which
marks a manservant, were lounging about the door, while dotted over the
pavement were groups of smart and voluble young women. Now and then one
of them raised a shrill mirthless laugh.
Lucy’s heart sank within her.
“Of course, some of all sorts come to these places,” said Florence
reassuringly. “Let me tell you these very girls would pass muster in
any respectable house once they are arrayed in their caps and aprons.
They put on their good manners with their livery.”
Lucy wondered whether it may be true wisdom to insist on a garb which
so easily becomes a mere domino in which very unexpected human nature
may masquerade.
“We shall have to go up to the second floor,” whispered Mrs.
Brand. “The menservants are seen on the ground floor, cooks and
head-housemaids on the first, and smaller fry, such as we want, on the
second. Possibly lodging-house keepers interview their little slaveys
in the attics.”
Women hanging about on the landings managed to make plain their
contempt for ladies who were manifestly seeking a mere “general.” The
front room on the second floor was so thronged that the sisters could
scarcely find standing room. It was not easy to distinguish between
mistresses and maids, for nobody was of a refined type, and in dress—at
least, on first glance—all seemed equally smart and fashionable.
A clerk of the office was edging about, note-book in hand. She was a
red-faced middle-aged woman, wearing a dusty, jet-trimmed black alpaca
gown.
“A general servant is scarcely to be had, madam,” she said.
“Then what are all these?” asked Mrs. Brand. “I thought this was the
‘general servants’ department.”
“So it is. But most of these are general servants ‘where another is
kept.’ They would not go as a single hand,” explained the clerk.
“I must have one who will consent to do so,” said Lucy. Something in
her low clear voice and simple decision of manner made the registry
office clerk turn and look at her. This was not the style of mistress
with whom she was best acquainted.
“I will try to please you, madam,” said the clerk. “I fear there is
nobody suitable in the house at present. But one may come in at any
moment. A great many girls do not appear till about noon. May I ask you
to take a seat? There is a sofa vacant near the window.”
As the sisters took their seats on the shabby little sofa, two or three
gaudy girls strolled past them, inspecting them from their hats down to
their boots.
Lucy whispered—
“This puts me in mind of what we used to read about the slave marts in
the States.”
“Yes, only it is the employers who are now on view!” said Florence
snappily.
“I don’t know whether that makes it either worse—or better,” Lucy
answered, drawing Hugh closer to her side.
The next moment a tall raw-boned woman with a forbidding countenance
stepped up and bluntly asked,
“Are you wantin’ a general servant?”
“Yes, I am,” Lucy replied, her heart sinking within her.
“I’m looking for a place. What wages do you give?”
Lucy named the sum she had paid Pollie.
“That’s not very high for a general,” observed the woman.
“It is a very quiet situation,” said Lucy.
“H’m!—out in some country place, I suppose?”
“No,” answered Lucy, “my house is in Bloomsbury.” She was cowed into
giving answers when she should rather have retorted by questions.
Really she did not want to question this woman, or to have anything
to do with her. Yet in this place she had not courage to say so. Mrs.
Brand did not come to the rescue.
“Bloomsbury houses are pretty big—too big for one woman.”
“Mine is a small house,” faltered Lucy.
“How many in family?”
“Only two,” Lucy answered; “myself and this little boy.”
“D’ye expect me to do the washing?”
Lucy was ready to cry out that she did not “expect” her to do anything,
except to go away! But she was so demoralised that she meekly replied—
“My last servant did the washing, with help; but if I get one who suits
me in other ways, I am willing to put the washing out.”
“Are you a widder, then?”
Lucy’s heart thumped.
“No, my husband is on a long voyage.”
“A ship-captain is he?”
“No, he is travelling for his health. He will be at home within the
year.”
An expression came into the woman’s insolent eye, which Lucy did not
understand, though it made her feel hot. The woman gave her head a
significant little wag. It meant something apart from what she said,
though her words were insolent enough.
“I reckon there won’t be much regular cooking in your place. There
never is, where there isn’t a proper master. I don’t think your place
will suit me.”
“I am sure it will not!” said Lucy quietly.
One or two tawdry girls who had come up to listen to this colloquy
nudged each other and laughed at the discomfiture of their
fellow-worker.
“Well, you’ve got rid of her,” observed Florence. “The idea of her
asking all those questions! What right have they to know anything
except the work which will be required of them and the wages they are
to get?”
“I don’t say that,” said Lucy. “Before a woman accepts a place, I
think she has a right to know whether it is quite respectable—and
many little details beside. But she might have waited till I had first
put some questions to her. Fancy, if I had behaved so when I went, a
stranger, to look after the first appointment I had at the Institute!”
Florence made an impatient gesture.
“You compare things which have no standard of comparison,” she said.
“You are a lady and know how to behave and to keep your proper place.
These creatures don’t. They must be taught. If you had taken that woman
in the right way, and talked down to her and cheapened her well, she
would have respected you, and she might have turned out a servant good
enough.”
“Florence, dear,” pleaded Lucy, “I would not wish to take any woman
into my house who could behave so. And her appearance was horrid!”
“She would have done up decently enough if you had insisted on it,”
said Florence. “Why need you care how uncouth a servant looks so long
as you can get plenty of work out of her? It is not as if you had a
professional man in your house, and had to think of a girl’s appearance
in opening the door. Do better next time. Here comes another.”
“Are you wanting a general servant, ma’am?” said the girl, advancing
towards Mrs. Challoner.
This was a younger woman than the last. Better looking too, despite the
draggled feather which overhung her hat. There was some pertness in her
voice and manner. But Lucy was not repelled by her as by the other, and
was therefore brave enough to carry on some catechism on her own side.
“You have been a general servant before?”
“Yes, m’m; I’ve never been anything else.”
“Then you have plenty of experience, and know what you are undertaking?”
“I’ve been in places, m’m, since I was fifteen. I’m twenty-two now.”
She looked at least four years older.
Again Mrs. Challoner stated the wages she gave, adding some rough
sketch of the duties of the place.
“I am sure a reliable girl will find it comfortable,” she said. “And
now—if we agree on other things—what references have you to give me?”
The rather haggard face fell; but the pert voice answered undauntedly—
“I was three months in my last place, m’m, and they’ve got nothing to
say against me.”
“Three months is a very short time,” commented Lucy. “Why did you
leave?”
“Well, m’m, the missis had such a temper as never was.” A pause. “She
couldn’t get no girl to stay.”
“She will give you a character?”
“Well, m’m, it’s a shame if she didn’t! I’ve had nothing against my
character.”
“She could not know you very well in three months’ time,” mused Lucy.
“But she could at least tell me the character she got when she engaged
you.”
“She never asked a character,” said the girl. “Ah, m’m, she was too
glad to get anybody. She knowed her own temper and that no one wouldn’t
stay.”
Lucy looked at her with considering eyes.
“If I were a servant,” said she, “I would not go where my character was
not sought for. I should feel sure it could not be a good place.”
The girl muttered something about ladies being sometimes hard put to
it and in a dreadful hurry, and about “a poor girl having to get her
bread.”
Lucy’s charity instantly accepted all such possible excuses.
“If you explained the circumstances to the mistress you lived with
before this last, perhaps she would allow me to make a few inquiries
about you?”
“She might,” the girl said; “but some ladies do not like to be
troubled.”
“How long were you in that situation?” asked Lucy.
“Six weeks,” answered the girl. “There was a fire, and after that they
made some changes, and that was why I came away.”
“But I do not like the look of this,” observed Lucy. “And what about
the situation before that?”
“I don’t know where those people are,” said the girl, a sullenness
coming over her. “The master bankrupted, and it was as much as I could
do to get my wages.”
“You have been very unfortunate,” remarked Lucy, pondering whether this
might not be simple fact, and whether justice might not demand that she
should give the girl “another chance.” Still it was her present duty
to get a reliable household helper, and other considerations must take
second place to that absolute duty. Yet she shrank from coming to any
harsh decision.
“What is the longest time you have kept any situation?” she asked.
“I was a whole year in one,” said the girl, with great self-satisfaction.
“How long is that ago?” inquired Lucy.
“It was my second place,” returned the girl, rather defiantly. “And it
was a hard one. For it were a public, an’ the master, he drank, and the
missus were dead, and there were six children. I might have been there
till to-day,” she went on, “but I had to go into ’orspital, I were that
worn out.”
What a life history if it were true! And what a terrible imagination
if it were false! But why had the girl found it so hard to keep other
places if she had so readily endured the slavery indicated in her words?
“I am afraid you will not suit me,” said Lucy, very gently. “I fear you
have had no opportunity to get the experience and training I require.”
“I’ve always been in places, m’m,” answered the girl tartly. “If ten
years o’ different places doesn’t give one experience, I don’t know
what will!”
“Experience of changes,” said Lucy, “but not experience in work and in
regular household ways.”
The girl looked in Lucy’s face and saw that her dismissal was decided.
“Oh, well, m’m, please yourself!” she said. “There’s plenty o’ places
goin’ that’ll suit me, and I’d not care to stay long anywhere!”
“You did better this time, Sis,” whispered Florence Brand as the damsel
flounced away. “But you must not be too particular. Don’t peep too
closely behind their set scenes. If they tell you a lie decently, make
believe to believe it. Then, if anything turns out wrong, why, you’ve
been deceived, you know, and your credit is saved.”
Lucy scarcely heard what her sister said. The squalid horror of the
lives opening before her sickened and suffocated her soul, just as the
fetid atmosphere of the crowded room was sickening to her body.
“Poor girl, what chance has she enjoyed?” she said. “She had not a bad
face. If I had not been fixed as I am, I might have given her a trial,
and have helped her to be glad ‘to stay long somewhere.’ One couldn’t
wonder that she wasn’t, if all she told is true.”
Florence laughed.
“True?” she echoed. “Not one word of it! I believe she found out
that you weren’t the mistress for her before she told you about ‘the
public.’ She reckoned that would choke you off. They are cute enough
for anything. True! Why, she openly told you one flaring fib, and you
never noticed it!”
“What was it?” asked the bewildered Lucy.
“She said she went into service at fifteen and is twenty-two; and next
she said she had been in service ten years. And yet you’re ready to
cry over her! Oh, my dear, simple sister! You need not be so sorry for
her—be sorry for yourself, in the power of such as she. She needs no
pity!”
“This only shows her greater need of pity,” said Lucy; but she had to
stoop and soothe Hugh, who was plucking at her dress and saying—
“Let us come away, mamma! I don’t like these people, and the room is so
nasty!”
“Poor little dear, he isn’t used to it!” said a voice which Lucy had
not heard before.
It was that of a lady seated on a chair half behind the little sofa,
which was drawn forward crosswise. This lady was knitting a child’s
stocking. She was quietly and neatly dressed, and did not look much
more than thirty years of age. She had a pale face, with a sort of
enduring stillness upon it, not unlike that of one bearing up against
some chronic pain or trouble. She patted Hugh’s shoulder kindly and
smiled up into Lucy’s face, adding—
“It’s a great pity any of us have to get used to it!”
“Yes, indeed,” Lucy responded, instantly recognising that she was
addressed by another “expectant mistress.” “We have been here more
than an hour already, and nobody has even approached me but two most
unsuitable women! It is a terrible waste of time!” she added, thinking
of the brief wintry daylight in which she had to finish her seaside
sketches, which the picture-dealer desired to have in hand before the
New Year, and which she herself wished to complete before she took up
her teaching at the Institute.
“You don’t know what it is yet!” said the lady, quite cheerfully. “This
is the third day I’ve been here—staying on till the afternoon. I’ve
seen nobody suitable yet.”
“May I ask if you have ever hired a servant here before?” said Mrs.
Challoner.
“I have not,” replied the stranger; “but my husband’s sister did. She
came here daily for nearly a week, and when she got a suitable girl,
she only stayed two months, because she heard of another place in a
neighbourhood she liked better!”
“I wonder almost that you are making this experiment after that
experience!” remarked Lucy.
“It does not seem very encouraging,” answered the other; “but what is
one to do? And when we get them they don’t work, and don’t they waste
and destroy! I wish we could do without servants altogether! I think I
could get along finely—if it wasn’t for opening the street door. One
cannot do that, you know.”
Lucy was silent, considering. It seemed to her, at that moment, that
if Charlie was at home, and no duty of breadwinning lay upon herself,
then rather than endure a prolongation and repetition of her present
experience, she would spend the remainder of her life in opening her
street door to all comers.
The lady accepted her silence as sympathy.
“My sister-in-law says the same,” she went on. “She and her husband
have a flat—a pretty little flat near the Parks, where they are rather
expensive, so they have one with only five rooms—and they’ve just got
one little child. And Minnie says she could manage quite well, if it
wasn’t for taking out the perambulator.”
“I always took out my boy myself,” said Lucy, with her arm about Hugh’s
neck, “and I often opened the hall door—generally, indeed—because I
could see who was coming from my window, and it saved my maid’s running
up a flight of stairs.”
The stranger looked at her rather coldly.
“That is the way servants get spoiled,” she remarked. “And they don’t
stay with you a bit longer for all your pains.”
“Mine stayed with me seven years, and has only gone away to get
married,” said Lucy quietly.
The other gave a little laugh.
“You had better mention that to the girls,” she answered. “I believe it
recommends a place. But most of them will feel they have been deceived
with false hopes unless the event comes off within seven months! Seven
years! Well, you’ve got something to learn now. You have not cut your
mistress-teeth yet.”
Lucy felt that her mind was opening to new lines of thought in the
world about her. She had always known that Florence thought in these
ways; but she had thought that was just Florence. Her own small circle
of intimates were people of another sort, being all people who had done
real work of some kind or another, and were proud of it, and would have
felt hurt to be suspected of idleness. But here were women who were
prepared to work (for a glance at the knitter’s hands revealed that
truth about her), but who were so ashamed of work that they could do it
only out of sight, and were under the mean necessity of hiring a mask
to do whatever people must see! How odd it was! And then it flashed
into Lucy’s mind that one can scarcely expect very worthy girls to rush
eagerly to discharge tasks that other women are simply ashamed to do!
If it be so disgraceful to open one’s own door, or to wheel out one’s
own baby, why should other women not feel it still more disgraceful
to open other people’s doors and wheel out other people’s babies? Why
should they not be eager to rush from these discredited duties towards
others not yet lying under the same ban?
At that moment the groups in the middle of the room parted a little,
and the elderly female clerk of the registry came towards Mrs.
Challoner with an unctuous smile spread over her face. Following at her
heels was another woman, who was, however, nearly eclipsed by her ample
figure.
“I think I have found somebody to suit you, ma’am,” she said. “I think
we have been most fortunate. Just the sort of person to please you is
not to be found every day. It is quite Providential. I’m so glad you
should see her before there is any chance of her being snapped up. I’d
advise you to settle with her, madam,” she added, bending over, in a
familiar whisper which made Lucy draw back. “She’d have a dozen chances
if she were here half an hour. Her very appearance is enough. You’ll
speak to me, please, madam, before you go away.”
As she moved aside for her “introduction” to step forward, Lucy beheld
a neat, crisp little figure which might have stepped out of a Royal
Academy picture of a happy cottage home or mansion nursery. This was
not a young woman; she was between forty and fifty, dressed in black,
with a small prim bonnet enclosing a neat white cap and tied with
narrow white ribbons. The face within the bonnet was well-featured
and softly ruddy, the pleasant middle-aged bloom being set off to
advantage by the slight frosting of the hair visible beneath the cap.
A small straw basket was held firmly in the neat cotton-gloved hands.
An angel with shining wings could have hardly looked more apart than
she did in that throng of coarse tawdry femininity, nor have been a
more unexpected apparition. A well-trained respect, without a dash of
servility, was in her voice and manner as she said—
“I am Jessie Morison, ma’am. I understand you want a servant.”
“She’s just your style, Luce,” whispered Florence; “but she’s too old!
It’s no use taking people after others have got all the work out of
them.”
(_To be continued._)
THE QUEEN’S AVIARY AT WINDSOR.
BY ERNEST M. JESSOP.
[Illustration: FRONT VIEW OF HER MAJESTY’S AVIARY, WINDSOR.]
But few of the many who yearly stroll through the lovely glades of
Windsor Park know or think of the infinite variety of bird life
contained within its boundaries. Many and wide apart in nature and
disposition are its feathered rovers. From the tiny tomtit to the
lordly golden eagle, from the motherly white Dorking to the wild turkey
of Canada, all make or have made for them their homes or their nests.
[Illustration: PLYMOUTH ROCKS.]
Many years since (in fact, over thirty) signs of the presence of a
great depredator were noticed in the more secluded parts of the forest:
one day the remains of some luckless rabbits, another a dead or dying
lamb. Traps were set, and a strict watch kept for the poacher. Within
a very short period was caught a splendid male specimen of the golden
eagle. He was promptly housed in a large wooden enclosure near the head
keeper’s house, where he has lived and flourished for more than thirty
years; his eye as bright, his talons as strong, his spirit as fierce as
when he roamed at will the emperor of the air.
[Illustration: A GOLDEN PHEASANT.]
Some four or five years since a comrade was also caught and placed in
a similar enclosure beside him, so that, day after day, when sociably
inclined, they can exchange harsh-noted confidences. They have so far
got used to the presence of their captors as to allow of a man entering
their enclosures to sweep them out; but the boldest keeper in the
Queen’s employ will not yet venture to touch such fearful wild fowl.
Not very far from the eagles’ domain, one may perchance see a flock of
Canadian wild turkeys. These birds (almost as large as our toothsome
Christmas friends) are more wild in name than in nature, for instead
of haunting trees and coverts to be shot in the manner of pheasants at
the proper season, they at present insist on being domesticated and
partaking of the head keeper’s hospitality when the members of his
household feed the numerous song-birds which gather around the house
for their daily meals.
But we must leave the keeper’s house with its fascinating surroundings
and make for our proper destination, which is the aviary at Frogmore.
Over the verdant turf and under the wide-spreading trees, mainly
following the private road traversed every day by Her Majesty when
residing at Windsor, past the kennels with their noisy occupants, past
the lovely fruit and flower gardens, just outside of Frogmore House,
and beside the beautiful dairy, stands the object of our walk.
[Illustration: SILVER-PENCILLED HAMBURGH.]
Below the level of the road in a gently-sloping grass-grown dell
is built the aviary. Originally the site was occupied but by some
dilapidated outbuildings. The present construction is entirely due to
the designs of the never-forgotten Prince Consort. He it was who saw
the capabilities of the site, and with his usual forethought added art
to utility.
Although originally designed for the reception of rare and curious
birds presented to the Queen, the aviary has for many years past been
mainly used as a miniature poultry farm. Now and again may arrive some
showy feathered biped from foreign lands to lead a quiet happy life,
well tended and cared for; but in the main ducks and chickens, turkeys
and pigeons form the bulk of the population. It is a charming, peaceful
little scene to gaze upon, this fine summer morning, the fountain and
pond with its fat white ducks in the foreground, behind the well-kept
terrace with its summer-house at one end, with rustic seat so often
occupied by the Royal couple in days gone by, and a background formed
by the neat range of brick buildings and spreading trees.
Let us go and interview its keeper. This is a fine stalwart specimen
of a retired policeman. Thirty years does Hammond tell us he served in
Her Majesty’s household police, and now, in the Indian summer of his
days, he quietly lays down the law to turkeys, and takes the smallest
of chicks and the most amiable of pigeons into custody. Before the
advent of Hammond, the aviary, which was for forty years under feminine
supervision, had somewhat declined in usefulness; but, as its new
guardian is a practical man as well as a poultry-fancier, the whole of
his little domain looks well kept and prosperous.
[Illustration: SILVER-SPANGLED HAMBURGHS.]
The eighteen pens with brick roost-houses behind, which form the front
of the aviary, are mostly occupied by very fine specimens of domestic
poultry, the breed of its occupants being indicated by an enamelled
iron label affixed to the front of each pen, every breed being kept
absolutely separate.
The breeds of poultry kept are too many to describe here; suffice it
to say that Hammond thinks his best birds are white Leghorns and black
Minorcas. For laying purposes, he prefers a cross between Leghorn and
Plymouth Rock; for winter laying, Plymouth Rocks; and for the table,
white Dorkings to his mind bear the palm.
The aviary does not supply all the poultry required for the Castle, the
first idea being to keep all its pens well stocked with good handsome
birds, and to send the surplus to the Castle kitchens. The eggs,
ranging between forty and fifty daily, are sent to Windsor Castle,
Buckingham Palace, and Osborne House only, the Queen’s other residences
procuring their supplies elsewhere. About one hundred birds are
required each year for stocking the pens, the remainder bred going, as
I before remarked, for table purposes. Here I may mention that the only
fowls served at Her Majesty’s own table are white Dorkings.
[Illustration: “FIELD-MARSHAL,” THE TURKEY.]
After acquiring much useful information on poultry farming, I am
taken to the rear of the premises, where breeding operations are
mostly carried on. Incubators, I am told, are not in use or desired
at Windsor. Every convenience is, of course, provided for the sitting
hens, but with seemingly a natural perverseness they occasionally
prefer the oddest of nests chosen by themselves to the most comfortable
ones provided for them. Here, for instance, in a dark corner is a stout
foster-mother of a hen bringing up a handsome family of ducklings in a
bushel basket. It was noticed that her own eggs were invariably laid
in this receptacle, and so when breeding time came the basket was duly
filled up for her accommodation.
[Illustration: HAMMOND AND HIS BANTAM “TOBY.”]
All chickens for the first three weeks of their lives have the run of
the pretty old-fashioned garden attached to Hammond’s cottage; but as
soon as that age is attained, over-indulgence in horticultural pursuits
compels their removal.
In addition to chickens some fifty to sixty Aylesbury ducks are
annually reared and fattened for Castle use. Some of these are now
wandering about with happy and contented looks, little recking of the
use of those succulent peas shooting up so tall and straight in their
keeper’s garden. Here, too, in the yard are a few portly Rouen ducks,
the female of which breed some time since distinguished herself by
laying an egg five ounces in weight; but, remarks Hammond when relating
the incident, “she does not often do it.”
In the four pigeon lofts which surmount the roof of the aviary there
live at present some forty pigeons mainly of the “Foreign Owl” and
“Jacobin” breeds. The youngsters bred and not required for stock
purposes go the way of all pigeons—that which leads to pies. At the
aviary are also kept some beautiful white doves purchased abroad by
H.R.H. Princess Beatrice.
Next I am shown some representatives of the turkey race. These are of a
very handsome race known as the Cinnamon turkey. Their native home in
Britain is as far north as Caithness; but it is believed the breed was
originally brought from the United States or Canada.
The male bird (some three years of age) is of most imposing presence.
His colour is a rich chestnut brown, with a black edge to each feather
and white wing flights. As he marches to and fro with slow and stately
step over a measured track, his prismatic-hued head and neck, combined
with his brown and white uniform, irresistibly remind one of the chief
hall porter at some stately hotel or theatre.
He is pleased to express his approval of the appearance of my coadjutor
with the camera by giving vent to a series of gobbles which sound like
the prelude to a solo on the big drum. He then proceeds to disperse the
small crowd of humble feathered admirers who have gathered around him,
and poses himself for the coming picture.
Sad to relate though, the sharp click of the rapid shutter of the
camera quite destroys his self-possession, and he flies for protection
behind an old chicken coop, for ever losing caste in the eyes of a
small white bantam looking on, who gives vent to his disgust at this
craven conduct by a series of ear-piercing challenges.
Some years since, the Queen possessed a beautiful breed of pure white
turkeys. Of these there are not any specimens surviving at Windsor,
although, as pairs of the birds were given to the Prince of Wales, the
Duke of Connaught, and the late Duke of Albany, it is possible that the
breed is not extinct.
And now once more to the front of the aviary. Here are a splendid pair
of golden pheasants, the male bird as he darts about in the sunshine
looking a perfect vision of beauty. He was reared at Windsor from
parents bred at the Zoological Gardens. The eggs of his mate are given
to a sedate hen to hatch, for greater safety than they would get in the
nest of their somewhat frivolous mother, who in her turn receives those
of a bantam to take care of.
In the same pen with the golden pheasants lives a pretty little family
of buff and white pied pigeons—the property of the Queen’s Indian
Secretary.
Near by one may see a small party of ringdoves assuming the most
graceful attitudes as they whisper soft nothings to one another in the
bright warm sunshine. These pretty creatures are a living reminder
of the innate gallantry of the Irish race. During the Queen’s first
progress through Ireland after her marriage, as the Royal carriage
was slowly passing through a triumphal arch, a pair of ringdoves were
gently lowered almost into Her Majesty’s hands. It is from this pair
that the pretty little family before mentioned is descended. The doves
are great favourites with the Queen, who always relates the history of
their origin with special pleasure.
Before leaving, one must have a glance at the Queen’s room, situated
in the centre of the aviary, which remains practically the same in
appearance as when first fitted under the superintendence of the Prince
Consort. It is a very simple but bright apartment of moderate size,
with a big bay window overlooking the terrace and fountain.
The walls are papered with a light chintz pattern, and the furniture
is framed in light oak and upholstered with a flower pattern cretonne.
The principal ornament of the room is a large case of stuffed birds
shot by the late Prince Consort. The case is about six feet in height,
and has a rustic oak framework. Its occupants are grouse, black cock,
and capercailzie. Carved on the frame of the case is “Taymouth, Sep.
8th and 9th, 1842.” All around the walls of the room are other cases of
old favourites which in days gone by adorned the pens of the aviary.
There is a splendid pied peacock, Amherst pheasants, Indian pigeons,
a bantam formerly belonging to the Prince of Wales, and many others.
One should also notice the head and claws of a gigantic emu, who in
his lifetime was the proud representative of Australia at Windsor.
In the corridor leading from the Queen’s room to the garden stands a
group of kangaroo rats, a big bustard, a Muscovy duck, and a splendid
peacock, once the property of the Earl of Beaconsfield. This last bird
was removed to the aviary from Hughenden shortly after the late Earl’s
death.
[Illustration: “THE FOSTER-MOTHER.”]
Until the last few years, the aviary was a favourite place for the
Royal Family to partake of afternoon tea, and here in the Queen’s room
is still kept the neat dark blue-and-white Dresden china service which
was in ordinary use by Her Majesty. The Queen still drives round the
aviary in her daily visit to Frogmore, but rarely alights from her
carriage.
Of Royal and distinguished visitors there are many, but not any so
regular or so welcome as the children of H.R.H. Princess Beatrice, who
seldom allow a day to pass, when staying at Windsor, without “coming
to feed the birds”; and right well do those same birds know and welcome
the youthful visitors. From the big turkey to the tiny doves, all
are on the alert when the sound of carriage wheels is heard, and a
universal chorus of approval bursts from the feathered throats as the
Royal party distribute their largesse.
The family of the Duke of Connaught also have a special interest in the
aviary in the shape of some dozen or so of long-haired white Canadian
guinea-pigs (a present from their aunt, the Princess Louise), which
live and flourish under Hammond’s fostering care.
And now old Time is fast a-flying, so one must think of taking leave;
but I cannot, without great discourtesy, omit a mention of one of the
most important characters on the establishment. This is “Toby,” a tiny
white bantam cock with a beautiful rose-coloured comb. Throughout the
morning he has carefully followed his master’s footsteps, seemingly
under the idea that his protection was necessary from the evil designs
of journalists and photographers. Too near an approach to the beloved
governor was at once resented, while when a halt was called for
descriptive purposes, he would stand patiently by with head on one
side, crooning his satisfaction with the explanation, and anon darting
a sharp look at the man with the note-book as though he would say,
“Now, have you got that down?”
So satisfied with our attention is he that at his master’s desire he
proceeds to show us a small specimen of his talents. Standing on the
ground, with Hammond’s hands linked together before him, a short run is
taken and the hands are neatly jumped five or six times in succession.
Other tricks were to follow, but unfortunately Toby’s father just then
appeared from behind a coop, followed by a numerous harem. Something
cynical with regard to frivolous amusements was evidently said by the
newcomers, for without the slightest warning Toby at once proceeded to
assault the man with the camera, and, as the bird must weigh a pound
and a half, whereas the artist is not more than thirteen stone, we
deemed it prudent to say good-bye, and beat a hasty retreat, followed
by triumphant crowing from Toby and his sire, who, by the by, gives
himself airs on the strength of being a prize-winner at one of the
great Norwich shows.
HOUSEHOLD HINTS.
THE oven door of a kitchen range should be left open at night to air
the oven, unless a cat is left in the kitchen. Cats sometimes get into
the oven for warmth if it is left open, and that is not advisable.
CARE should be taken when giving fruit to children to remove any pips
or core, which might prove dangerous if swallowed.
THE hall door of a house should now and then be set wide open to air
the passages thoroughly, someone being at hand to see that no one
enters unbidden.
A TABLESPOONFUL of washing-powder in the hot water in which china and
silver are washed is of great value; but the water should be very hot.
IN arranging a new house, it is rather a good plan to have distinctive
names for the bedrooms, and it is a pretty idea to name them after
jewels or flowers, and have the rooms decorated with colours and
designs to match, so that there might be the Emerald, Ruby, Turquoise,
and Amber rooms, or the Forget-me-not, Rose, and Primrose rooms. The
hand-candlesticks, match-box cases, and hot-water cans should be
painted to suit each room.
NEVER use any but the best soap for the face. If this is not obtainable
or within reach of your purse, use only a little oatmeal in the water.
Common soaps produce blotches and skin irritation, especially those
that are highly coloured and scented.
BOTH woollen and cotton stockings should be mended with silk rather
than cotton or wool. It is more comfortable, resists wear and tear
longer, and does not easily discolour.
THERE is scarcely anything more injurious to health and spirits than a
damp house. Leave it as soon as possible.
FUR worn round the throat has a certain danger, not only that of making
the throat delicate, but also that the fine hairs find their way into
the stomach and lungs, and become injurious.
IF a kettle or saucepan has to be put away and not used for some
time, see that it is quite dry inside, for if put away wet, rust will
accumulate and make a hole in the metal.
SOCIAL INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AN EAST END GIRL.
BY LA PETITE.