I removed my face hurriedly from a large tumbler of iced
never-mind-what.
"Good heavens, Henry!" I cried, "you don't mean to say you've been
weeding the grass!"
"It wasn't my own idea," he pleaded; "it was Sonia who put me up to
it. She said that now Baby was beginning to notice things it was quite
time something was done to the lawn--don't snort, we always call it
the lawn at home--or he would grow up to think badly of his father. I
had a shot at it yesterday, but there's a good bit more to do. Look
here," he continued, brightening, "drop round to-morrow and let Sonia
find you a chisel or something. It's not bad fun really. All the
excitement of the chase and no danger to life or limb."
"Not for worlds," I replied solemnly, "You jest at the dangers of
weeding, but I have seen something of the misery it involves. Listen,
I am going to tell you a story.
"Once upon a time I chanced to know a man called Pilning, Sebastian
Pilning. Like you, he was blessed with a young wife and the beginning
of a family; like you, he was a quiet, unambitious fellow of simple
tastes. Moreover, he was incredibly stubborn. One idle spring morning
he sauntered out into his back garden to smoke a pipe, and it chanced
that for the first time in his life he took a good look at his--yes,
he, called it a lawn too. I need not tell you what he saw there. It
was like most lawns, four blades of grass and the rest one vast
expanse of weeds. For a moment he was staggered.
"And then the little devil that lies in wait for men who go out to
look at their back-gardens whispered in his ear, 'You've nothing to
do, Pilning, why not have a few of these weeds out?' It was his first
temptation, and he fell.
"All that day he toiled at his lawn, and by the evening there was a
patch about three feet square that looked like a fragment of a
ploughed field. On this he sprinkled grass seed and fortified it with
wire entanglements to keep out the birds. The next morning he was at
it again, and so he continued for three whole weeks. At the end of
that time the disease had taken a firm hold of him. He had managed to
clear most of his plot, but only the finest grass would satisfy him
now; he had begun to root up the coarser quality and the blades that
didn't seem to him to be quite the right shade. He worked incessantly,
and his wife had to bring his meals out to him. He even attempted to
sleep out there in a hammock, so that he could start the first thing
in the morning. He had an idea that the weeds would be rooted up more
readily if he could catch them asleep. But it rained the first night
he tried, and that put him off, because he knew that if his health
broke down the dandelions would get the upper hand. He became so
strange at last that one day his wife sent round and begged me to come
and see him."
"Did you tell him one of your stories?" asked Henry.
"I found him in the garden on his knees stabbing at a plantain with a
corkscrew. He had marked the whole place out in squares like a
chess-board, each square representing a day's work and a pound of
grass seed sown. The word had been passed round that free meals were
going at Pilning's, and every sparrow in the district was there. They
seemed to appreciate the system of wire entanglements: it showed them
where to look for seeds.
"I could see at a glance that Pilning was in a bad way. He spoke
cheerfully enough, but there was a nasty look in his eyes. I tried to
lead him off gradually to safer topics by interesting him in the less
perilous delights of flower-growing. I asked after his gerania and
spoke with admiration of his aspidistra and his jasponyx...."
"Rot!" said Henry. "That's a mineral."
"Sorry--my fault. It's such a jolly word, and I didn't think you'd
know any better.... But it was all in vain; he would talk of nothing
but grass and weeds. I tried to comfort his wife as I left, but my
heart was very heavy. That night, Henry, the blow fell! They managed
to lure Pilning in to dinner when it got dusk, but his mind was
wandering a lot. Finally he broke down completely, and made a
desperate assault with a toothpick on the baby's scalp. His wife
fetched one of the neighbours to sit on his head while she went for
the doctor; but it was too late. His reason had become utterly
unhinged. There was nothing for it but to put him away in a home, and
there he has remained for five long years.
"Only last week I went to ask how he was, and the doctor said there
was no change, but that he was quite harmless. I was shown into a
little room where he lived, and there I saw him on the floor talking
and laughing to himself. But he took no notice of me when I spoke to
him. They told me he was quite happy and would spend hours a day like
that at his work."
"What sort of work?" asked Henry.
"The last time I saw poor Pilning," I replied sadly, "he was squatting
on the carpet and trying to jab the pattern out with a fork."
* * * * *
It is reported that owing to the overproduction of mittens and the
consequent slump in this article, one London firm of manufacturers has
no fewer than 100,000 pairs on its hands.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Vicar._ "NOW, CHILDREN, WE ARE TO LOVE OUR ENEMIES.
THAT ISN'T EASY, IS IT?"
_Small Boy._ "NO, SIR."
_Vicar._ "WELL, HOW ARE WE TO DO IT?"
(_Dead silence._)
_Vicar._ "YES, WE MUST LOVE EVEN THE GERMANS. HOW ARE WE TO DO THAT?"
_Small Boy._ "BY GIVING 'EM WOT'S GOOD FOR 'EM, SIR."]
* * * * *