PETS: SUSIE--COCKY--TRUMP--CHIPS--WENDY--TAFFY.
"The heart is hard in nature and unfit
For human fellowship, as being void
Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike
To love and friendship both, that is not pleased
With sight of animals enjoying life,
Nor feels their happiness augment his own."
--COWPER.
There are many stories of the affection of the domestic goose for man,
and I knew of one which was very fond of a friend of mine. The goose
followed him like a dog, and would come with him on to the lawn where
we were playing tennis, and sitting close beside him on a garden seat
with great dignity would apparently watch the game with interest. My
friend was fond of unusual pets; he had a tame hedgehog, for whom he
made a most comfortable house with living-room downstairs and sleeping
apartment on the first floor. His pet's name was Jacob, suggested I
think by the ladder which night and morning he used for ascending to
or descending from his bedroom. Hedgehogs have a bad character as
robbers of partridges' nests, and in our old parish accounts, under
the name of "urchins," we find entries of payments for their
destruction at the rate of 4d. apiece.
My younger daughter had a tame duck, Susie by name, who gravely
waddled behind her round the garden. In summer at tea-time Susie would
much enjoy the company under the wych-elm on the lawn, and took her
"dish of tea" out of the saucer in the antique and orthodox manner.
Another amusing pet was a jackdaw who had an outdoor residence, though
often allowed to be loose. He acquired an exact imitation of my old
gardener's chronic cough, and enjoyed the exhibition of his
achievement when the old man was working near the cage, somewhat to
the man's annoyance. He was full of mischief, and was not allowed in
the house; but he once got in at my study window, picked out every
sheet of notepaper from my stationery case, and scattered them in all
directions.
A still more accomplished mimic, a lemon-crested cockatoo, reproduced
the voices of little hungry pigs. He lived indoors on a stand over a
tray, with a chain round one leg, and was very clever at mounting and
descending by the combined use of beak and claws, without complicating
himself with his chain. He got loose one day, and ascended one of the
chestnut trees, and a volunteer went up after him by a ladder. Cocky
resented his interference, flew at him and bit his finger to the bone.
His beak was a very powerful weapon, and, until I made him a new tray
with a zinc-covered ledge, he demolished any unprotected wood or even
furniture within reach.
This spring we had a blackbird's nest in some ivy near the house, and
many times each day the cock bird came to watch over his household,
and discourse sweet music from a neighbouring tree. A pair of jays
however appeared, and seemed too much interested in the nest for the
parents' comfort, approaching so near one morning that first the cock
blackbird, and then the hen attacked them; and though they returned
again during the day, evidently bent on mischief, the courageous
parents eventually drove them from the field, and they were seen no
more. Owing to the cutting of great fir woods in the Forest for timber
supplies for the war, jays have become much more common here than
formerly, and seem to have migrated from their former haunts and taken
to the beeches and oaks in the undisturbed woods.
Birds as a rule are not well represented in books, though the drawing
is more correct than the colouring. Examine Randolph Caldecott's _Sing
a Song for Sixpence_ for a really clever sketch of the four and twenty
blackbirds, every one a characteristic likeness, and a different
attitude; and look at his rookery in _Bracebridge Hall_, where, in
three sketches he shows some equally exact rooks.
I always walked when on my farming rounds, for one of the first
lessons I learned at Alton was that for that purpose "one walk is
better than three rides." My predecessor being a hunting man and fond
of horses, generally rode, but for careful observation, especially in
the matter of plant diseases, one wants to "potter about" with a
magnifying glass sometimes, and of course in entomology and
ornithology there is no room for a horse. One of the remarks made by
my men about me on my arrival was, "His mother larned him to walk,"
with quite a note of admiration to emphasize it. It is really
remarkable how farmers and country people scorn the idea of walking
either for pleasure or business, if "a lift" can be had. I was at
Cheltenham with a brother, and finding we had done our business in
good time, we decided to walk to the next station--Cleeve--instead of
waiting for the train at Cheltenham. We asked a native the way, who
replied with great contempt, "Cleeve station? Oh, I wouldn't walk to
Cleeve to save tuppence!"
One of our ventures in the way of pets was a well-bred poodle; he was
very amiable, handsome, and clever, but exceedingly mischievous. He
thought it great fun to pull up neatly written and carefully disposed
garden labels and carry them away to the lawn, for which, though a
nuisance, he was forgiven; but his next achievement was a more serious
matter. Finding his way about the village he would take advantage of
an open door to explore the cottage larders and when a chance offered,
would make off with half a pound of butter or a cherished piece of
meat and bring his plunder to my house in triumph. He was succeeded by
"Trump," a Dandie Dinmont, a very charming dog with a delightful
disposition, and perfectly honest until my elder daughter acquired a
fox terrier, "Chips," well-bred but highly nervous. Chips was a born
sportsman and most useful so long as he confined his activities to
rats and was busy when the thrashing-machine was at work, but when he
took to corrupting Trump's morals he required watching. Trump would be
lying quietly in the house or garden as good as possible, when the
insinuating tempter would find him, whisper a few words in his ear,
and off they went together. It was plainly an invitation, and later a
dead duckling or chicken would show where they had spent their time.
Trump became as bad as Chips and had to be given away. Chips was very
sensitive to discordant sounds, he must have had a musical ear; his
chief aversion was the sound of a gong, the beater for which was too
hard and, unless very carefully manipulated, produced a jangle. My
hall was paved with hexagonal stone sections called "quarries," which
appeared to intensify the discordance. Chips felt it keenly, and would
stand quite rigid for some minutes until the last reverberation and
its effect had passed off. He was uncertain in temper and disliked
some of the villagers. An old man complained that he had been bitten,
and told me with great feeling, "Folks say that if ever the dog goes
mad, I shall go mad too." I had much difficulty in appeasing him and
assuring him that there was no truth in the statement.
How shall I do justice to the infinite variety of "Wendy," the dainty
little Chinese princess who now rules my household? There are people
who cannot see in an old Worcester tea-cup and saucer the
eighteenth-century beauty, fastidiously sipping, what she called in
the same language as the Aldington cottager of to-day, her dish of
"tay." There are people who regard with indifference an ancient chair,
except as an object to be sat upon, and who fail to realize its
historical charm, or even the credit due to the maker of a piece of
furniture that has survived two hundred and fifty spring cleanings.
And there are people who can see nothing in the Pekingese, nothing of
the distinction and "the claims of long descent," nothing of the
possibilities of transmigration, or of present ever-changing and human
moods. Such are the people who suppose that the "dulness of the
country," and the attraction of the shams and inanities of the picture
palace induced the starving agricultural labourer willingly to
exchange the blue vault of heaven for the leaden pall of London fogs,
cool green pastures for the scorching pavement, and the fragrant
shelter of the hedgerow blossoms for the stifling slum and the crowded
factory.
There is nothing of the democrat about Wendy; watch her elevate an
already tip-tilted nose at displeasing food, or a tainted dish, and
notice her look of abject contempt for the giver as she turns away in
disgust. No lover of the Pekingese should be without a charming little
book _Some Pekingese Pets_ by M.N. Daniel, with delightful sketches by
the author, in which we are told that, "Until the year, 1860, so far
as is known, no 'Foreign Devil' had ever seen one of these Imperial
Lion Dogs. In that year, however, the sacking of the Imperial Palace
at Pekin took place, and amongst the treasures looted and brought to
England were five little Lion or Sun Dogs."
The author also says: "It is certain that the same type of Lion Dog as
our Western Pekingese must have existed in China for at least a
thousand years: that they were regarded as sacred or semi-sacred is
proved by the Idols and Kylons (many of them known to be at least a
thousand years old) representing the same type of Lion Dog." I have an
old Nankin blue teapot, the lid of which is surmounted by one of these
Kylons.
I can only describe Wendy's moods and characteristics by giving a bare
catalogue: she is mirthful, hopeful, playful, despairing, bored,
defiant, roguish, cunning, penitent, sensitive, aggressive, offended,
reproachful, angry, pleased, trustful, loving, disobedient,
determined, puzzled, faithful, naughty, dignified, impudent, proud,
luxurious, fearless, disappointed, docile, fierce, independent,
mischievous; and she often illustrates the rhyme:
"The dog will come when he's called,
And the cat will stay away,
But the Pekingese will do as he please
Whatever you do or say."
Wendy is cat-like in some of her habits, prefers fish to meat, sleeps
all day in wet weather but is lively towards night, is very particular
about her toilet and washes her face with moistened paws passed over
her ears. She is very sensitive to the weather, loves the sun, lying
stretched at full length on the hot gravel so that she can enjoy the
comforting warmth to her little body. She is wretched in a
thunderstorm, shivering and taking refuge beneath a table or sofa;
then she comes to me for sympathy, and lies on my knee, covered with a
rug or a newspaper, but after a bad storm she is not herself for many
hours. Anyone who does not know her may think the moods I have
detailed an impossible category, but there is not one which we have
not personally witnessed again and again, and no one can see her
loving caresses of my wife without being assured of the soul that
animates her mind and body.
Wendy is never allowed to "sit in damp clothes," or even with feet wet
with rain or dew, and looks very reproachful if not attended to at
once with a rough towel on coming indoors. "Why _don't_ you dry me?"
is exactly the expression her looks convey. She has a lined basket, on
four short legs to keep her from draughts when sleeping, but she is
often uneasy alone at night, evidently "seeing things," and, in
Worcestershire language, finding it "unked," so she is now always
allowed a night-light.
It is said that the dog's habit of turning round several times before
settling to sleep is a survival from remote ages when they made
themselves a comfortable bed by smoothing down the grass around them,
but I am quite sure that Wendy does the same thing to get her coat
unruffled, and in the best condition to protect her from draughts. She
likes to lie curled up into a circle, so that her hind paws may come
under her chin for warmth, and support her head, as her neck is so
short that without a pillow of some sort she could not rest in
comfort; as an alternative, she will sometimes arrange the rug in her
sleeping basket to act in the same way.
We had various cobs and ponies from time to time; quite a good pony
could be bought at six months old for about £12, and one of the best
we had was Taffy, from a drove of Welsh. Returning from Evesham
Station with my man we passed a labourer with something in a hamper on
his shoulder that rattled, just as we reached the Aldington turning;
Taffy started, swerved across the road in the narrowest part, and
jumped through the hedge, taking cart and all; we found ourselves in a
wheat-field, but were not overturned, and reached a gate in safety
none the worse.
On an old May Day (May 12) I was at Bretforton Manor playing tennis
and shooting rooks. About 10.30 p.m. the cart and Taffy were brought
round; I had all my things in and was about to mount when, the pony
fidgeting to be off, my friend's groom caught at the rein, but he had
omitted to buckle it on one side of the bit. In an instant pony and
trap had disappeared, and the man was lying in the drive with a broken
leg. We had to carry him home on a door, and then went in search of
the pony, expecting every moment to find it and the trap in a ditch;
about half a mile from Aldington we met my own man who had come in
search of my remains. He told us that the pony and trap were quite
safe and uninjured. The clever animal had trotted the whole distance,
over two miles, with the reins dragging behind him, taken the turning
from the highroad, and again at my gate, and pulled up in front of the
house, where someone passing saw him and brought my man out to the
rescue.