It must not be thought that I underestimate the value of education
as a general principle; indeed I earnestly beg of Mr. FISHER, should
these lines chance to meet his eye, not to be in any way discouraged
by them; but I have been driven to the conclusion that there is such a
thing as over-education, and that it has dangers. When you have read
this story I think you will agree with me. It is rather a sad story,
but it is very short.
The population of my poultry-yard was composed of five hens and
Umslumpogaas. The five hens were creatures of mediocrity, deserving no
special mention--all very well for laying eggs and similar domestic
duties, but from an intellectual point of view simply napoo, as the
polyglot stylists have it. Far otherwise was it with Umslumpogaas.
He was a pure bred, massive Black Orpington cockerel, a scion of the
finest strain in the land. Indeed the dealer from whom I purchased
him informed me that there was royal blood in his veins, and I have
no reason to doubt it. One had only to watch him running in pursuit
of a moth or other winged insect to be struck by the essentially
aristocratic swing of his wattles and the symmetrical curves of
his graceful lobes; and the proud pomposity of his tail feathers
irresistibly called to mind the old nobility and the Court of LOUIS
QUATORZE. Pimple, our tabby kitten, looked indescribably bourgeois
beside him.
But it was not the external appearance of Umslumpogaas, regal though
it was, that endeared him to me so much as his great intellectual
potentialities. That bird had a mind, and I was determined to develop
it to the uttermost. Under my assiduous tuition he progressed in a
manner that can only be described as astonishing. He quickly learned
to take a letter from the post-girl in his beak and deliver it without
error to that member of the family to whom it was addressed. I was in
the habit of reading to him extracts from the daily papers, and the
interest he took in the course of the recent war and his intelligent
appreciation of the finer points of Marshal FOCH'S strategy were most
pleasing to observe. He would greet the news of our victorious onsweep
with exultant crows, while at the announcement of any temporary
set-back he would mutter gloomily and go and scratch under the
shrubbery. On Armistice day he quite let himself go, cackling and
mafficking round the yard in a manner almost absurd. But who did not
unbend a little on that historic day?
Perhaps his greatest achievement, however, was the mastering of
a system of signals, a sort of simplified Morse code, which we
established through the medium of an old motor-horn. One blast meant
breakfast-time; two intimated that I was about to dig in the waste
patch under the walnut trees and he was to assemble his wives for
a diet of worms; three loud toots were the summons for the mid-day
meal; four were the curfew call signifying that it was time for him
to conduct his consorts to their coop for the night; and so on, with
special arrangements in case of air-raids. Not once was Umslumpogaas
at fault; no matter in what remote corner of the yard he and his hens
might be, at the sound of the three blasts he would come hastening up
with his hens for dinner. I was most gratified.
And then came the disaster. I was sawing wood one morning in the
saddle house, and Umslumpogaas and his wives were sitting round about
the door, dusting themselves. All was peaceful. Suddenly down the lane
which passes the gate of my yard appeared a large grey-bodied car.
Some school-children being in the road the driver emitted three loud
warning hoots of his horn. In an instant Umslumpogaas was on his feet
and, his wives at his heels, making a bee line for the gate. By the
time he reached it the car had passed and was turning the corner that
leads to the village, when the driver again sounded his horn thrice.
With an imperious call to his wives to follow, Umslumpogaas set off at
full speed in pursuit, and before I had fully grasped the situation
my entire poultry-yard had vanished from sight in the wake of that
confounded motor-car. And it is the unfortunate truth that neither
Umslumpogaas nor a single member of his harem has been seen or heard
of since. It is as bad as the affair of the _Pied Piper_ of Hamelin.
I said at the beginning that this was rather a sad little story.
Taking into consideration the present price of new-laid eggs it
amounts more or less to a tragedy, and I put it down to nothing but
the baleful effects of over-education.
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[Illustration: "GET ON WITH YOUR SUPPER, ROBERT. IT'S ONLY THE MISSUS,
AND SHE DAREN'T SAY ANYTHING FOR FEAR I SHOULD DEMOBILISE."]
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