single servant come to learn, though the fees were purposely made as
low as possible—in fact, almost nominal for servants. We also wished to
get hold of the class of young matron who is represented in _Punch_ as
timidly imploring her cook “not to put lumps in the melted butter,” but
even they were very shy of coming. Sometimes, I think, they were really
ashamed of their stupendous and amazing ignorance, for it was in that
rank we found, when we did catch one or two, that the most absolute
want of knowledge of the simplest domestic details existed. Whether or
no it is due to the many schools of cookery which now happily exist
all over Great Britain, I will not venture to say; but surely it would
be impossible nowadays for any young woman to give me the answer one
of our earliest pupils gave. She was very young and very pretty, and
we all consequently took the greatest interest in her progress; but
alas! she was privately reported to me as being a most unpromising
subject. One day, when her lesson was just over, I chanced to meet her
and inquired how she was getting on. She took the most hopeful view,
and declared she “knew a lot.” I next asked her to tell me what she had
learned that day.
“Oh, let me see; we’ve been doing breakfast dishes, I think.”
“And what did you learn about them?”
“I learned”—this with an air of triumph—“that they are all the same
eggs which you poach or boil. I always thought they were a different
sort of egg, a different _shape_, you know!”
I think one of my greatest worries was the way in which the British
middle-class matron regarded the National School of Cookery as an
institution for supplying her with an excellent cook, possessing all
the virtues as well as all the talents, at very low wages. Every post
brought me sheaves and piles of letters entering into the minutest
details of the writers’ domestic affairs, and requesting—I might
almost say ordering—me to send them down next day one of the treasures
I was supposed to manufacture and turn out by the score. In vain I
published notices that the school was not a registry office, and that
no cooks could be “sent from it.” Sometimes I tried to cope with any
particularly beseeching matron by writing to explain the nature of the
undertaking, and suggesting that she should send her cook, or _a_ cook,
to learn; but this always made her very indignant. At last I found the
only way to get rid of the intolerable nuisance of such correspondents
was to answer by a lithographed post-card, stating that the school
did not undertake to supply cooks. This missive appeared to act as
a bombshell in the establishment; for apparently the existing cook
immediately gave warning, eliciting one more despairing shriek of “See
what you have done,” to me, from the persevering mistress. I was not,
however, so inhuman as to launch this missile until I had many times
said the same thing, either by letter or by enclosing printed notices
of the work and plan of the school.
I often wonder we had not more accidents, considering the crass
ignorance of our ladies. Oddly enough, the only alarming episode came
to us from a girl of the people, one of four who had begged to be
allowed to act as kitchen-maids. Their idea was a good one, for of
course they got their food all day, and were at least in the way of
picking up a good deal of useful knowledge. These girls also cleaned
up after the class was over, so saving the poor weary cooks, who early
in the undertaking remarked, with a sigh, “The young ladies do make
such a mess, to be sure!” Well, this girl, who was very steady and
hard-working, but abnormally stupid, saw fit one morning to turn on
the gas in certain stoves some little time beforehand. The sheds were
so airy—to say the least of it—that there was not sufficient smell to
attract any one’s attention, and the gas accumulated comfortably in
the stoves until the class started work. It chanced to be a lesson in
cooking vegetables, and potatoes were the “object.” About twenty-five
small saucepans had been filled with water and potatoes, and the next
step was to put them on to boil. I was not in that kitchen at the
moment, or I hope I should have perceived the escape, and have had the
common-sense to forbid a match being struck to light the gas in certain
stoves. But I was near enough to hear a loud “pouf,” followed by cries
of alarm and dismay, and I rushed in while the potatoes were still in
the air, for they went up as high as ever they could get. Happily no
one was hurt, though a good deal of damage was done to some of the
stoves; but it was a very narrow escape, owing doubtless to the space
and involuntary ventilation of these same sheds. In the midst of my
alarm I well remember the ridiculous effect of that rain of potatoes.
Every one had forgotten all about them, and their re-appearance created
as much surprise as though such things had never existed.
I am afraid the object of much of the severity of cleanliness taught
in the morning lessons was to discourage the numerous fine and smart
ladies who beset our doors, though Sir Henry had always declared
it was only to test their intentions. I always made a round of the
kitchens after work had been started, and it was really touching to
see beautiful gowns pinned back and covered by large coarse aprons,
and jewelled hands wielding scrubbing brushes. Once, as I came round
the corner, I heard one of the cook teachers say to a fair pupil who
was kneeling amid a great slop of soapy water, and calling upon her to
admire the scrubbing of a kitchen table, “No, my lady, I’m afraid that
won’t do at all. You see her ladyship” (that was I, _bien entendu_) “is
a tiger about the legs!” I certainly had no idea such was my character.
I wonder what has become of all the certificates gained, with a great
deal of trouble and fatigue, by strict and lengthy examinations, which
used to be so proudly exhibited, framed and glazed, in stately mansions
thirty years ago.
Of course there were absurd proposals made to us of all sorts and
kinds. It was suggested by some wiseacres that we should instruct both
the army and navy, to say nothing of the merchant service. I entreated
to be allowed first to teach the ordinary middle-class cook of the
British Empire, before I soared to the instruction of its gallant
defenders. True, that same cook was a very shy bird to catch, and
I really never caught her in the two short years of my management;
but I am glad to know that my successor has since managed to attract
and teach the exact class we always wanted to reach. The odd thing
is, that the cooks generally did not want to be taught, and I have
constantly known of lessons being declined, even when they were offered
at the expense of the mistress. No reason whatever against the method
of the school was given, and the refusal seemed to spring merely
from a dislike to be taught: “Thank you, ma’am; I had rather not,”
being the general formula. I know of one or two instances where an
excellent teacher had been sent down from the school by special request
to a small town some thirty miles from London, but when the various
mistresses in the neighbourhood attempted to form a class of pupils
from their own servants and at their own expense, they were met on all
sides by flat refusals, and assurances that the cooks would rather
give up their situations than join a cooking class. Those were among
the early and the most disheartening difficulties of the school. If we
could only have infused the desire for culinary knowledge, which seemed
suddenly to take possession of the ladies, into the minds of their
humbler sisters, how glad we should have been!
I cannot conclude this paper without telling of one of my own most
confusing experiences, the problem of which has never been solved. One
day I received a letter stating that the writer was most anxious to
become a pupil of the school. It was from a young curate in a distant
and out-of-the-way part of the north (I think) of England. I never
read a more clever and amusing letter, describing his sufferings in
the food line at the hands of the good woman who “did” for him in his
modest lodging. He was evidently desperate, and professed himself
determined to learn how to cook, so as to be independent of this dame.
But although I assured him of my profound sympathy and pity, I had
at the same time to decline him as a pupil, alleging that we did not
teach men at all. Letter after letter followed this pronouncement of
mine, each one droller than the last, though the poor man was evidently
in deadly earnest all the time. He pleaded and besought in the most
eloquent words, assuring me of his harmless nature and wishes, offering
to send testimonials as to character, &c., from his bishop, or his
rector’s wife, anything, in short, that I required to convince me of
his worthiness. I had no time, however, to waste on so fruitless,
though so amusing, a correspondence, and I had to cut it short, by
merely repeating the rule, and declining peremptorily to go on with the
subject. I had nearly forgotten all about it, when, one morning, some
weeks later, my deputy-superintendent came into my office and said:—
“There is such a queer girl among the new pupils this morning.”
“Is there? What is she like?” I asked rather indifferently, for a
“queer girl” was by no means unknown in the crowded classes.
“Well, she is so big and so awkward, as if she had never worn
petticoats before, and has such huge hands and feet, and quite short
hair with a cap, and, oh! such a deep voice. But she works very hard,
and is rushing through her lesson at a great rate.”
“What is her name?” I asked, as a light seemed suddenly to dawn on me.
“Miss—Miss—oh, here it is,” said the deputy-lady, holding out the
counterfoil of her book of receipts for fees. “She sent me up a
post-office order for the fees some little time ago, but there was no
room for her in any class until to-day.”
I looked at the name, rather a remarkable one, though I have quite
forgotten it, turned to the letter-book, and, lo, it was the same as
the curate’s! I did not say anything to my second in command, but
made an opportunity for going into the kitchen where the “queer girl”
would be at work. No need to ask for her to be pointed out, for a more
singular-looking being I never beheld, working away with feverish
energy. The cook who was giving the lesson told me afterwards that
the dismay of that pupil was great at being first set to clean stoves
and scrub tables, and that “she” had piteously entreated, in a deep
bass voice, to be shown at once how to cook a mutton chop. The set of
lessons were also much curtailed in that instance, for the queer girl
did not appear after the end of that week, instead of going on for
another fortnight.
There is every reason to believe that the National School of Cookery—in
which I must always take a deep interest—is much nearer now to
fulfilling its original design of constant and careful instruction in
the difficult art of cooking than it was in those early but amusing
days, and its many constant friends and supporters must rejoice
to see how it has emerged from that chrysalis stage and become a
self-supporting concern, doing steady excellent work in the most
unobtrusive manner.
XVII
BIRD NOTES
A great reaction of feeling in favour of the mongoose has set in since
Mr. Rudyard Kipling’s delightful story of “Rikki-tikki,” in the “First
Jungle Book,” presenting that small animal in an heroic and loveable
aspect. But to the true bird-lover the mongoose still appears a dreaded
and dangerous foe. It is well known that its introduction into Jamaica
has resulted in nearly the extermination of bird life in that island,
and the consequent increase of insects, notably the diminutive tick,
that mere speck of a vicious little torment.
There are, I believe, only a very few mongooses in Barbados, and
strong measures will doubtless be adopted to still further reduce
their number; for no possible advantage in destroying the large
brown rat which gnaws the sugar-cane can make up for the havoc the
mongoose creates in the poultry yard, and, indeed, among all feathered
creatures. It has also been found by experience that the mongoose
prefers eggs to rats, and will neglect his proper prey for any sort
or size of egg. He was brought into Jamaica to eat up the large rat
introduced a century ago by a certain Sir Charles Price (after whom
those same brown rats are still called), instead of which the mongoose
has taken to egg and bird eating, and has thriven on this diet beyond
all calculation. Sir Charles Price introduced his rat to eat up the
snakes with which Jamaica was then infested, and now that the mongoose
has failed to clear out the rats, some other creature will have to be
introduced to cope with the swarming and ravenous mongoose.
It was therefore with the greatest satisfaction I once beheld in the
garden at Government House, Barbados, the clever manner the birds
circumvented the wiles of a half-tame mongoose which haunted the
grounds.
Short as is the twilight in those Lesser Antilles, there was still, at
midsummer, light enough left in the western sky to make it delightful
to linger in the garden after our evening drive. The wonder and beauty
of the hues of the sunset sky seemed ever fresh, and every evening
one gazed with admiration, which was almost awe, at the marvellous
undreamed of colours glowing on that gorgeous palette. Crimsons,
yellows, mauves, palest blues, chrysoprase greens, pearly greys, all
blent together as if by enchantment, but changing as you looked and
melting into that deep, indescribable, tropic purple, which forms the
glorious background of the “meaner beauties of the night.”
In this same garden there chanced to be a couple of low swinging seats
just opposite a large tree, which I soon observed was the favourite
roosting place of countless numbers of birds. Indeed, all the fowls
of the air seemed to assemble in its branches, and I was filled with
curiosity to know why the other trees were deserted. At roosting time
the chattering and chirruping were deafening, and quarrels raged
fiercely all along the branches. I noticed that the centre of the tree
was left empty, and that the birds edged and sidled out as far as ever
they could get on to its slenderest branches. All the squabbles arose
from the ardent desire with which each bird was apparently filled to
be the very last on the branch and so the nearest to its extreme tip.
It can easily be understood that such thin twigs could not stand the
weight of these crowding little creatures, and would therefore bend
until they could no longer cling to it, and so had to fly off and
return to search for another foothold. I had watched this unusual mode
of roosting for several evenings, without getting any nearer to the
truth than a guess that the struggle was perhaps to secure a cool and
airy bed-place.
One hot evening, however, we lingered longer in what the negro gardener
called the “swinggers,” tempted by the cool darkness, and putting off
as long as possible the time of lights and added heat, and swarming
winged ants, and moths, and mosquitoes. We had begun to think how
delightful it would be to have no dinner at all, but just to stay
there, gently swaying to and fro all night, when we saw a shadow—for at
first it seemed nothing more—dart from among the shadows around us, and
move swiftly up the trunk of the tree. At first I thought it must be a
huge rat, but my dear companion whispered, “Look at the mongoose!” So
we sat still, watching it with closest attention. Soon it was lost in
the dense central foliage, and we wondered at the profound stillness of
that swarming mass of birds, who had not long settled into quiet. Our
poor human, inadequate eyes had, however, become so accustomed to the
gloom by its gradual growth, that presently we could plainly observe
a flattened-out object stealthily creeping along an out-lying bough.
It was quite a breathless moment, for no shadow could have moved more
noiselessly than that crawling creature. Even as we watched, the bough
softly and gradually bent beneath the added weight, but still the
mongoose stole onwards. No little sleeping ball of feathers was quite
within reach, so yet another step must needs be taken along the slender
branch. To my joy that step was fatal to the hopes of the brigand
beast, for the bough dipped suddenly, and the mongoose had to cling to
it for dear life, whilst every bird flew off with sharp cries of alarm
which effectually roused the whole population of the ærial city, and
the air was quite darkened round the tree by fluttering, half-awakened
birds.
It was plain now to see the reason of the proceedings which had so
puzzled me, and once more I felt inclined to—as the Psalmist phrases
it—“lay my hand on my mouth and be still,” in wonder and admiration of
the adaptable instincts of birds. How long had it taken these little
helpless creatures to discover that their only safety lay in just such
tactics, and what sense guided them in choosing exactly the one tree
which possessed slender and yielding branch-tips which were yet strong
enough to support their weight? They were just settling down again
when horrid clamorous bells insisted on our going back into a hot,
lighted-up house, and facing the additional miseries of dressing and
dinner. Though we carefully watched that same tree and its roosting
crowds for many weeks, we never again saw the mongoose attempt to get
his supper there, so I suppose he must also be credited with sufficient
cleverness to know when he was beaten.
A Toucan does not often figure in a list of tame birds, and I cannot
conscientiously recommend it as a pet. Mine came from Venezuela and
was given to me soon after our arrival in Trinidad. It must have been
caught very young, for it was perfectly tame, and, if you did not
object to its sharp claws, would sit contentedly on your hand. The body
was about as big as that of a crow, but it may be described as a short,
stout bird, with a beak as large as its body. Upon the shining surface
of this proboscis was crowded all the colours certainly of the rainbow,
blended in a prismatic scale. The toucan’s plumage would be dingy if it
were not so glossy, and it was of a blue-black hue with white feathers
in the wings and just a little orange under the throat to shade off the
bill, as it were. Some toucans have large fleshy excrescences at the
root of the bill, but this one and those I saw in Trinidad had not.
The toucan was, however, an amiable and, at first, a silent bird. He
lived in a very large cage, chiefly on fruit, and tubbed constantly.
But the curious and amusing thing was to see him preparing to roost,
and he began quite early, whilst other birds were still wide awake. The
first thing was to carefully cock up—for it was a slow and cautious
proceeding—his absurd little scut of a tail which was only about
three or four inches long. This must in some way have affected his
balance, for he never moved on the perch after the tail had been laid
carefully back. Then, later in the evening, he gently turned the huge
unwieldy bill round by degrees, until it too was laid along his back
and buried in feathers in the usual bird fashion. By the way, I have
always wondered how and why the myth arose that birds sleep with their
heads _under_ their wings? A moment’s thought or observation would show
that it is quite as impossible a feat for a bird as for a human being.
However, the toucan’s sleeping arrangements resulted in producing an
oval mass of feathers supported on one leg, looking as unlike a bird as
it is possible to imagine. When he was ruthlessly awakened by a sudden
poke or noise, which I grieve to state was often done—in my absence,
needless to say—I heard that he invariably tumbled down in a sprawling
heap, being unable to adjust the balance required by that ponderous
bill all in a moment.
For many months after his arrival the toucan was at least an
unobjectionable pet and very affectionate. He used to gently take my
fingers in his large gaudy bill and nibble them softly without hurting
me, but I never could help thinking what a pinch he might give if he
liked. His inoffensive ways, however, only lasted while he was very
young, for in due course of time he began to utter discordant yells and
shrieks, especially during the luncheon hour. This could not be borne,
and the house-steward—a most dignified functionary—used to advance
towards the cage in a stately manner with a tumbler of water concealed
behind his back which he would suddenly fling over the screaming bird.
The toucan soon learned what Mr. V.’s appearance before his cage meant,
and always ceased his screaming at the mere sight of an empty tumbler.
These sudden douches, or else his adolescence, must have had a bad
effect on his temper, for he could no longer be petted and played with,
and any finger put within reach of his bill suffered severely. Then he
got ill, poor bird, and the Portuguese cook was called in to doctor
him. But the remedies seemed so heroic that I determined to send the
toucan away. I could not turn him loose in the garden on account of his
piercing screams, so he was caught when asleep, packed in a basket, and
conveyed to the nearest high woods, where he was set at liberty, and I
can only hope he lived happy ever after, as a less gaudy and beauteous
variety of toucan is to be found in those virgin forests.
As might naturally be expected, there are many beautiful birds in the
large botanical gardens of Trinidad in the midst of which Government
House stands. It used to be a great delight to me to watch the darting
orioles flash past in all their golden beauty, and some lovely,
brilliantly blue, birds were also occasionally to be seen among the
trees. I was given some of these, but alas! they never lived in
captivity, and after one or two unsuccessful efforts I always let them
out of the cage. The ubiquitous sparrow was there of course, and so was
a rather larger black and yellow bird called the “qu’est-ce que dit?”
from its incessant cry.
In these gardens the orioles built their large clumsy nests of dried
grass without any precaution against surprises; but I was told that in
the interior of the island, where snakes abound, the “corn-bird”—as he
is called up-country—has found it expedient to hang his nest at the
end of a sort of grass rope some six feet long. This forms a complete
protection against snakes, as the rope is so slightly put together that
no wise serpent would trust himself on it. Sometimes the oriole finds
he has woven too large a nest, so he half fills it with leaves, but
after heavy rains these make the structure so heavy that it often falls
to the ground, and from this cause I became possessed of one or two of
these nests with their six or eight feet of dangling rope. Anything so
quaint as these numerous nests swinging from the topmost branches of
lofty trees cannot well be imagined. It is impossible to reach them by
climbing or in any other way except shooting away the slender straw
rope, which rifle-feat might surely rank with winning the Queen’s Prize
at Bisley!