|I took a garden fork just now and went out to dig up the artichokes.
When Jemima saw me crossing the orchard with a fork he called a
committee meeting, or rather a general assembly, and after some joyous
discussion it was decided _nem. con_. that the thing was worth looking
into. Forthwith, the whole family of Indian runners lined up in single
file, and led by Jemima followed faithfully in my track towards the
artichoke bed, with a gabble of merry noises. Jemima was first into the
breach. He always is...
But before I proceed it is necessary to explain. You will have observed
that I have twice referred to Jemima in the masculine gender. Doubtless,
you said, “How careless of the printer. Once might be forgiven; but
twice----” Dear madam' (or sir), the printer is on this occasion
blameless. It seems incredible, but it's so. The truth is that Jemima
was the victim of an accident at the christening ceremony. He was one of
a brood who, as they came like little balls of yellow fluff out of the
shell, received names of appropriate ambiguity--all except Jemima. There
were Lob and Lop, Two Spot and Waddles, Puddle-duck and Why?, Greedy
and Baby, and so on. Every name as safe as the bank, equal to all
contingencies--except Jemima. What reckless impulse led us to call him
Jemima I forget. But regardless of his name, he grew up into a handsome
drake--a proud and gaudy fellow, who doesn't care twopence what you call
him so long as you call him to the Diet of Worms.
And here he is, surrounded by his household, who, as they gabble,
gobble, and crowd in on me so that I have to scare them off in order to
drive in the fork. Jemima keeps his eye on the fork as a good batsman
keeps his eye on the ball. The flash of a fork appeals to him like the
sound of a trumpet to the warhorse. He will lead his battalion through
fire and water in pursuit of it. He knows that a fork has some mystical
connection with worms, and doubtless regards it as a beneficent deity.
The others are content to grub in the new-turned soil, but he, with his
larger reasoning power, knows that the fork produces the worms and that
the way to get the fattest worms is to hang on to the fork. From the way
he watches it I rather fancy he thinks the worms come out of the fork.
Look at him now. He cocks his unwinking eye up at the retreating fork,
expecting to see large, squirming worms dropping from it, and Greedy
nips in under his nose and gobbles a waggling beauty. My excellent
friend, I say, addressing Jemima, you know both too much and too little.
If you had known a little more you would have had that worm; if you had
known a little less you would have had that worm. Let me commend to you
the words of the poet:
A little learning is a dangerous thing:
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.
I've known many people like you, who miss the worm because they know too
much but don't know enough. Now Greedy----
But clear off all of you. What ho! there.... The scales!... Here is a
bumper root.... Jemima realises that something unusual has happened,
assembles the family, and discusses the mystery with great animation. It
is this interest in affairs that makes the Indian runners such agreeable
companions. You can never be lonely with a family of Indian runners
about. Unlike the poor solitary hens who go grubbing about the orchard
without an idea in their silly heads, these creatures live in a
perpetual gossip. The world is full of such a number of things that they
hardly ever leave off talking, and though they all talk together they
are so amiable about it that it makes you feel cheerful to hear them....
But here are the scales.... Five pound three ounces.... Now what do you
say to that, Jemima? Let us turn to and see if we can beat it.
The idea is taken up with acclamation, and as I resume digging I am
enveloped once more by the mob of ducks, Jemima still running dreadful
risks in his attachment to the fork. He is a nuisance, but it would be
ungracious to complain, for his days are numbered. You don't know it,
I said, but you are feasting to-day in order that others may feast
tomorrow. You devour the worm, and a larger and more cunning animal will
devour you. He cocks up his head and fixes me with that beady eye that
gleams with such artless yet searching intelligence.... You are right,
Jemima. That, as you observe, is only half the tale. You eat the worm,
and the large, cunning animal eats you, but--yes, Jemima, the crude
fact has to be faced that the worm takes up the tale again where Man the
Mighty leaves off: