Once upon a time there was an ostrich who, though very ostrichy, was
even more of an egoist. He thought only of himself. That is not a foible
peculiar to ostriches, but this particular fowl--and he was very
particular--was notable for it. "Where do I come in?" was a question
written all over him--from his ridiculous and inadequate head, down his
long neck, on his plump fluffy body, and so to his exceedingly flat and
over-sized feet.
It was in Afric's burning sand--to be precise, at the Cape--that, on the
approach of danger, the ostrich secreted his self-centred head, and here
from time to time his plumes were plucked from him for purposes of
trade.
Now it happened that in London there was a theatre given up to a season
of foreign opera, and, this theatre having been built by one of those
gifted geniuses so common among theatre architects, it followed that the
balcony (into which, of course, neither the architect nor the manager
for whom it was built had ever strayed) contained a number of seats from
which no view of the stage was visible at all--unless one stood up, and
then the people behind were deprived of their view. This, of course,
means nothing to architects or managers. The thought that jolly
anticipatory parties of simple folk bent upon a happy evening may be
depressed and dashed by a position suffering from such disabilities
could not concern architects and managers, for some imagination would be
needed to understand it.
The new temporary management, however (whatever the ordinary management
might do), recognising the rights of the spectator, refrained from
selling any seats from which no view whatever could be obtained and
behaved very well about it--as perhaps one has to do when half-a-guinea
is charged for each seat; but with the border-line seats which they did
sell--those on the confines of the possible area--a view of the stage
was only partial and so much a matter of touch-and-go that any undue
craning of the neck or moving of the head sideways at once interrupted
the line of vision of many worthy folk at the back; while anyone leaning
too far forward from a seat in the front row could instantly, for many
others, obliterate the whole stage.
It happened that on a certain very hot night in July a fat lady in one
of the front seats not only leaned forward but fanned herself
intermittently with a large fan.
Now and then one of the unfortunate half-guinea seat-holders behind her
in the debatable territory remonstrated gently and politely, remarking
on the privation her fan was causing to others, and each time the lady
smiled and said she was very sorry and put the fan down; but in two
minutes she was fluttering it again as hard as ever, and not a vestige
of the Pentateuchal caperings or whatever was going forward could be
discerned in her vicinity.
She meant well, poor lady; but it was very hot, and how could she help
it when her fan was made of that particular ostrich's feathers?
* * * * *
"Methods of sowing, reaping, watering, and thrashing have been
passed down from father to son through countless generations."
_Chronicle of London Missionary Society._
Of thrashing, anyhow.
* * * * *
"The feature of the Keswick valley is its spacious width of
skyscrape."--_L.& N.W.R. Guide to the English Lakes._
In this respect New York is its only serious rival.
* * * * *