SCENE I.

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Tonya Allen, and the Online Distributed

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JACKANAPES

DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT

AND OTHER STORIES

By

JULIANA HORATIO EWING.

with

Illustrations

By

Randolph

Caldecott

[Illustration]

"If I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her

favors, I could lay on like a butcher, and sit like a

Jackanapes, never off!"

KING HENRY V, Act 5, Scene 2.

JACKANAPES

CHAPTER I.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,

The morn the marshalling in arms--the day

Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent

The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,

Rider and horse:--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent.

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine:

Yet one would I select from that proud throng.

----to thee, to thousands, of whom each

And one as all a ghastly gap did make

In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach

Forgetfuluess were mercy for their sake;

The Archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake

Those whom they thirst for.

--BYRON.

[Illustration]

Two Donkeys and the Geese lived on the Green, and all other residents of

any social standing lived in houses round it. The houses had no names.

Everybody's address was, "The Green," but the Postman and the people of

the place knew where each family lived. As to the rest of the world,

what has one to do with the rest of the world, when he is safe at home

on his own Goose Green? Moreover, if a stranger did come on any lawful

business, he might ask his way at the shop.

Most of the inhabitants were long-lived, early deaths (like that of the

little Miss Jessamine) being exceptional; and most of the old people

were proud of their age, especially the sexton, who would be ninety-nine

come Martinmas, and whose father remembered a man who had carried

arrows, as a boy, for the battle of Flodden Field. The Grey Goose and

the big Miss Jessamine were the only elderly persons who kept their ages

secret. Indeed, Miss Jessamine never mentioned any one's age, or

recalled the exact year in which anything had happened. She said that

she had been taught that it was bad manners to do so "in a mixed

assembly."

The Grey Goose also avoided dates, but this was partly because her

brain, though intelligent, was not mathematical, and computation was

beyond her. She never got farther than "last Michaelmas," "the

Michaelmas before that," and "the Michaelmas before the Michaelmas

before that." After this her head, which was small, became confused, and

she said, "Ga, ga!" and changed the subject.

But she remembered the little Miss Jessamine, the Miss Jessamine with

the "conspicuous" hair. Her aunt, the big Miss Jessamine, said it was

her only fault. The hair was clean, was abundant, was glossy, but do

what you would with it, it never looked like other people's. And at

church, after Saturday night's wash, it shone like the best brass fender

after a Spring cleaning. In short, it was conspicuous, which does not

become a young woman--especially in church.

Those were worrying times altogether, and the Green was used for strange

purposes. A political meeting was held on it with the village Cobbler in

the chair, and a speaker who came by stage coach from the town, where

they had wrecked the bakers' shops, and discussed the price of bread. He

came a second time, by stage, but the people had heard something about

him in the meanwhile, and they did not keep him on the Green. They took

him to the pond and tried to make him swim, which he could not do, and

the whole affair was very disturbing to all quiet and peaceable fowls.

After which another man came, and preached sermons on the Green, and a

great many people went to hear him; for those were "trying times," and

folk ran hither and thither for comfort. And then what did they do but

drill the ploughboys on the Green, to get them ready to fight the

French, and teach them the goose-step! However, that came to an end at

last, for Bony was sent to St. Helena, and the ploughboys were sent back

to the plough.

Everybody lived in fear of Bony in those days, especially the naughty

children, who were kept in order during the day by threats of, "Bony

shall have you," and who had nightmares about him in the dark. They

thought he was an Ogre in a cocked hat. The Grey Goose thought he was a

fox, and that all the men of England were going out in red coats to hunt

him. It was no use to argue the point, for she had a very small head,

and when one idea got into it there was no room for another.

Besides, the Grey Goose never saw Bony, nor did the children, which

rather spoilt the terror of him, so that the Black Captain became more

effective as a Bogy with hardened offenders. The Grey Goose remembered

_his_ coming to the place perfectly. What he came for she did not

pretend to know. It was all part and parcel of the war and bad times. He

was called the Black Captain, partly because of himself, and partly

because of his wonderful black mare. Strange stories were afloat of how

far and how fast that mare could go, when her master's hand was on her

mane and he whispered in her ear. Indeed, some people thought we might

reckon ourselves very lucky if we were not out of the frying-pan into

the fire, and had not got a certain well-known Gentleman of the Road to

protect us against the French. But that, of course, made him none the

less useful to the Johnson's Nurse, when the little Miss Johnsons were

naughty.

"You leave off crying this minnit, Miss Jane, or I'll give you right

away to that horrid wicked officer. Jemima! just look out o' the windy,

if you please, and see if the Black Cap'n's a-coming with his horse to

carry away Miss Jane."

And there, sure enough, the Black Captain strode by, with his sword

clattering as if it did not know whose head to cut off first. But he did

not call for Miss Jane that time. He went on to the Green, where he came

so suddenly upon the eldest Master Johnson, sitting in a puddle on

purpose, in his new nankeen skeleton suit, that the young gentleman

thought judgment had overtaken him at last, and abandoned himself to the

howlings of despair. His howls were redoubled when he was clutched from

behind and swung over the Black Captain's shoulder, but in five minutes

his tears were stanched, and he was playing with the officer's

accoutrements. All of which the Grey Goose saw with her own eyes, and

heard afterwards that that bad boy had been whining to go back to the

Black Captain ever since, which showed how hardened he was, and that

nobody but Bonaparte himself could be expected to do him any good.

But those were "trying times." It was bad enough when the pickle of a

large and respectable family cried for the Black Captain; when it came

to the little Miss Jessamine crying for him, one felt that the sooner

the French landed and had done with it the better.

The big Miss Jessamine's objection to him was that he was a soldier, and

this prejudice was shared by all the Green. "A soldier," as the speaker

from the town had observed, "is a bloodthirsty, unsettled sort of a

rascal; that the peaceable, home-loving, bread-winning citizen can never

conscientiously look on as a brother, till he has beaten his sword into

a ploughshare, and his spear into a pruning-hook."

On the other hand there was some truth in what the Postman (an old

soldier) said in reply; that the sword has to cut a way for us out of

many a scrape into which our bread-winners get us when they drive their

ploughshares into fallows that don't belong to them. Indeed, whilst our

most peaceful citizens were prosperous chiefly by means of cotton, of

sugar, and of the rise and fall of the money-market (not to speak of

such salable matters as opium, firearms, and "black ivory"),

disturbances were apt to arise in India, Africa and other outlandish

parts, where the fathers of our domestic race were making fortunes for

their families. And, for that matter, even on the Green, we did not wish

the military to leave us in the lurch, so long as there was any fear

that the French were coming.[1]

[Footnote 1: "'The political men declare war, and generally for

commercial interests; but when the nation is thus embroiled with its

neighbors the soldier ... draws the sword, at the command of his

country.... One word as to thy comparison of military and commercial

persons. What manner of men be they who have supplied the Caffres with

the firearms and ammunition to maintain their savage and deplorable

wars? Assuredly they are not military.... Cease then, if thou would'st

be counted among the just, to vilify soldiers."--W. Napier, Lieut.

General, _November_, 1851.]

II

[Illustration]

To let the Black Captain have little Miss Jessamine, however, was

another matter. Her Aunt would not hear of it; and then, to crown all,

it appeared that the Captain's father did not think the young lady good

enough for his son. Never was any affair more clearly brought to a

conclusion. But those were "trying times;" and one moon-light night,

when the Grey Goose was sound asleep upon one leg, the Green was rudely

shaken under her by the thud of a horse's feet. "Ga, ga!" said she,

putting down the other leg, and running away.

By the time she returned to her place not a thing was to be seen or

heard. The horse had passed like a shot. But next day, there was

hurrying and skurrying and cackling at a very early hour, all about the

white house with the black beams, where Miss Jessamine lived. And when

the sun was so low, and the shadows so long on the grass that the Grey

Goose felt ready to run away at the sight of her own neck, little Miss

Jane Johnson, and her "particular friend" Clarinda, sat under the big

oak-tree on the Green, and Jane pinched Clarinda's little finger till

she found that she could keep a secret, and then she told her in

confidence that she had heard from Nurse and Jemima that Miss

Jessamine's niece had been a very naughty girl, and that that horrid

wicked officer had come for her on his black horse, and carried her

right away.

"Will she never come back?" asked Clarinda.

"Oh, no!" said Jane decidedly. "Bony never brings people back."

"Not never no more?" sobbed Clarinda, for she was weak-minded, and could

not bear to think that Bony never, never let naughty people go home

again.

Next day Jane had heard more.

"He has taken her to a Green?"

"A Goose Green?" asked Clarinda.

"No. A Gretna Green. Don't ask so many questions, child," said Jane;

who, having no more to tell, gave herself airs.

Jane was wrong on one point. Miss Jessamine's niece did come back, and

she and her husband were forgiven. The Grey Goose remembered it well, it

was Michaelmastide, the Michaelmas before the Michaelmas before the

Michaelmas--but ga, ga! What does the date matter? It was autumn,

harvest-time, and everybody was so busy prophesying and praying about

the crops, that the young couple wandered through the lanes, and got

blackberries for Miss Jessamine's celebrated crab and blackberry jam,

and made guys of themselves with bryony-wreaths, and not a soul troubled

his head about them, except the children, and the Postman. The children

dogged the Black Captain's footsteps (his bubble reputation as an Ogre

having burst), clamoring for a ride on the black mare. And the Postman

would go somewhat out of his postal way to catch the Captain's dark eye,

and show that he had not forgotten how to salute an officer.

But they were "trying times." One afternoon the black mare was stepping

gently up and down the grass, with her head at her master's shoulder,

and as many children crowded on to her silky back as if she had been an

elephant in a menagerie; and the next afternoon she carried him away,

sword and _sabre-tache_ clattering war-music at her side, and the

old Postman waiting for them, rigid with salutation, at the four cross

roads.

War and bad times! It was a hard winter, and the big Miss Jessamine and

the little Miss Jessamine (but she was Mrs. Black-Captain now), lived

very economically that they might help their poorer neighbors. They

neither entertained nor went into company, but the young lady always

went up the village as far as the _George and Dragon_, for air and

exercise, when the London Mail[2] came in.

[Footnote 2: The Mail Coach it was that distributed over the face of the

land, like the opening of apocalyptic vials, the heart-shaking news of

Trafalgar, of Salamanca, of Vittoria, of Waterloo.... The grandest

chapter of our experience, within the whole Mail Coach service, was on

those occasions when we went down from London with the news of Victory.

Five years of life it was worth paying down for the privilege of an

outside place. DE QUINCEY.]

One day (it was a day in the following June) it came in earlier than

usual, and the young lady was not there to meet it.

But a crowd soon gathered round the _George and Dragon_, gaping to

see the Mail Coach dressed with flowers and oak-leaves, and the guard

wearing a laurel wreath over and above his royal livery. The ribbons

that decked the horses were stained and flecked with the warmth and foam

of the pace at which they had come, for they had pressed on with the

news of Victory.

Miss Jessamine was sitting with her niece under the oak-tree on the

Green, when the Postman put a newspaper silently into her hand. Her

niece turned quickly--"Is there news?"

"Don't agitate yourself, my dear," said her aunt. "I will read it aloud,

and then we can enjoy it together; a far more comfortable method, my

love, than when you go up the village, and come home out of breath,

having snatched half the news as you run."

"I am all attention, dear aunt," said the little lady, clasping her

hands tightly on her lap.

Then Miss Jessamine read aloud--she was proud of her reading--and the

old soldier stood at attention behind her, with such a blending of pride

and pity on his face as it was strange to see:--

"DOWNING STREET,

"_June_ 22, 1815, 1 A.M."

"That's one in the morning," gasped the Postman; "beg your pardon, mum."

But though he apologized, he could not refrain from echoing here and

there a weighty word. "Glorious victory,"--"Two hundred pieces of

artillery,"--"Immense quantity of ammunition,"--and so forth.

"The loss of the British Army upon this occasion has unfortunately been

most severe. It had not been possible to make out a return of the killed

and wounded when Major Percy left headquarters. The names of the

officers killed and wounded, as far as they can be collected, are

annexed.

"I have the honor----"

"The list, aunt! Read the list!"

"My love--my darling--let us go in and----"

"No. Now! now!"

To one thing the supremely afflicted are entitled in their sorrow--to be

obeyed--and yet it is the last kindness that people commonly will do

them. But Miss Jessamine did. Steadying her voice, as best she might,

she read on, and the old soldier stood bareheaded to hear that first

Roll of the Dead at Waterloo, which began with the Duke of Brunswick,

and ended with Ensign Brown.[3] Five-and-thirty British Captains fell

asleep that day on the bed of Honor, and the Black Captain slept among

them.

[Footnote 3: "Brunswick's fated chieftain" fell at Quatre Bras, the day

before Waterloo, but this first (very imperfect) list, as it appeared in

the newspapers of the day, did begin with his name, and end with that of

an Ensign Brown.]

* * * * *

There are killed and wounded by war, of whom no returns reach Downing

Street.

Three days later, the Captain's wife had joined him, and Miss Jessamine

was kneeling by the cradle of their orphan son, a purple-red morsel of

humanity, with conspicuously golden hair.

"Will he live, Doctor?"

"Live? GOD bless my soul, ma'am! Look at him! The young Jackanapes!"

CHAPTER II.

And he wandered away and away

With Nature, the dear old Nurse.

LONGFELLOW.

[Illustration]

The Grey Goose remembered quite well the year that Jackanapes began to

walk, for it was the year that the speckled hen for the first time in

all her motherly life got out of patience when she was sitting. She had

been rather proud of the eggs--they are unusually large--but she never

felt quite comfortable on them; and whether it was because she used to

get cramp, and got off the nest, or because the season was bad, or what,

she never could tell, but every egg was addled but one, and the one that

did hatch gave her more trouble than any chick she had ever reared.

It was a fine, downy, bright yellow little thing, but it had a monstrous

big nose and feet, and such an ungainly walk as she knew no other

instance of in her well-bred and high-stepping family. And as to

behavior, it was not that it was either quarrelsome or moping, but

simply unlike the rest. When the other chicks hopped and cheeped on the

Green all at their mother's feet, this solitary yellow one went waddling

off on its own responsibility, and do or cluck what the spreckled hen

would, it went to play in the pond.

It was off one day as usual, and the hen was fussing and fuming after

it, when the Postman, going to deliver a letter at Miss Jessamine's

door, was nearly knocked over by the good lady herself, who, bursting

out of the house with her cap just off and her bonnet just not on,

fell into his arms, crying--

"Baby! Baby! Jackanapes! Jackanapes!"

If the Postman loved anything on earth, he loved the Captain's

yellow-haired child, so propping Miss Jessamine against her own

door-post, he followed the direction of her trembling fingers and made

for the Green.

Jackanapes had had the start of the Postman by nearly ten minutes. The

world--the round green world with an oak tree on it--was just becoming

very interesting to him. He had tried, vigorously but ineffectually, to

mount a passing pig the last time he was taken out walking; but then he

was encumbered with a nurse. Now he was his own master, and might, by

courage and energy, become the master of that delightful, downy, dumpy,

yellow thing, that was bobbing along over the green grass in front of

him. Forward! Charge! He aimed well, and grabbed it, but only to feel

the delicious downiness and dumpiness slipping through his fingers as he

fell upon his face. "Quawk!" said the yellow thing, and wobbled off

sideways. It was this oblique movement that enabled Jackanapes to come

up with it, for it was bound for the Pond, and therefore obliged to come

back into line. He failed again from top-heaviness, and his prey escaped

sideways as before, and, as before, lost ground in getting back to the

direct road to the Pond.

[Illustration]

And at the Pond the Postman found them both, one yellow thing rocking

safely on the ripples that lie beyond duck-weed, and the other washing

his draggled frock with tears, because he too had tried to sit upon the

Pond, and it wouldn't hold him.

CHAPTER III.

... If studious, copie fair what time hath blurred,

Redeem truth from his jawes; if souldier,

Chase brave employments with a naked sword

Throughout the world. Fool not; for all may have,

If they dare try, a glorious life, or grave.

* * * * *

In brief, acquit thee bravely: play the man.

Look not on pleasures as they come, but go.

Defer not the least vertue: life's poore span

Make not an ell, by trifling in thy woe.

If thou do ill, the joy fades, not the pains.

If well, the pain doth fade, the joy remains.

GEORGE HERBERT.

[Illustration]

Young Mrs. Johnson, who was a mother of many, hardly knew which to pity

more; Miss Jessamine for having her little ways and her antimacassars

rumpled by a young Jackanapes; or the boy himself, for being brought up

by an old maid.

Oddly enough, she would probably have pitied neither, had Jackanapes

been a girl. (One is so apt to think that what works smoothest works to

the highest ends, having no patience for the results of friction.) That

Father in GOD, who bade the young men to be pure, and the maidens brave,

greatly disturbed a member of his congregation, who thought that the

great preacher had made a slip of the tongue.

"That the girls should have purity, and the boys courage, is what you

would say, good Father?"

"Nature has done that," was the reply; "I meant what I said."

In good sooth, a young maid is all the better for learning some robuster

virtues than maidenliness and not to move the antimacassars. And the

robuster virtues require some fresh air and freedom. As, on the other

hand, Jackanapes (who had a boy's full share of the little beast and the

young monkey in his natural composition) was none the worse, at his

tender years, for learning some maidenliness--so far as maidenliness

means decency, pity, unselfishness and pretty behavior.

And it is due to him to say that he was an obedient boy, and a boy whose

word could be depended on, long before his grandfather the General came

to live at the Green.

He was obedient; that is he did what his great aunt told him. But--oh

dear! oh dear!--the pranks he played, which it had never entered into

her head to forbid!

It was when he had just been put into skeletons (frocks never suited

him) that he became very friendly with Master Tony Johnson, a younger

brother of the young gentleman who sat in the puddle on purpose. Tony

was not enterprising, and Jackanapes led him by the nose. One summer's

evening they were out late, and Miss Jessamine was becoming anxious,

when Jackanapes presented himself with a ghastly face all besmirched

with tears. He was unusually subdued.

"I'm afraid," he sobbed; "if you please, I'm very much afraid that Tony

Johnson's dying in the churchyard."

Miss Jessamine was just beginning to be distracted, when she smelt

Jackanapes.

"You naughty, naughty boys! Do you mean to tell me that you've been

smoking?"

"Not pipes," urged Jackanapes; "upon my honor, Aunty, not pipes. Only

segars like Mr. Johnson's! and only made of brown paper with a very,

very little tobacco from the shop inside them."

Whereupon, Miss Jessamine sent a servant to the churchyard, who found

Tony Johnson lying on a tomb-stone, very sick, and having ceased to

entertain any hopes of his own recovery.

If it could be possible that any "unpleasantness" could arise between

two such amiable neighbors as Miss Jessamine and Mrs. Johnson--and if

the still more incredible paradox can be that ladies may differ over a

point on which they are agreed--that point was the admitted fact that

Tony Johnson was "delicate," and the difference lay chiefly in this:

Mrs. Johnson said that Tony was delicate--meaning that he was more

finely strung, more sensitive, a properer subject for pampering and

petting than Jackanapes, and that, consequently, Jackanapes was to blame

for leading Tony into scrapes which resulted in his being chilled,

frightened, or (most frequently) sick. But when Miss Jessamine said that

Tony Johnson was delicate, she meant that he was more puling, less

manly, and less healthily brought up than Jackanapes, who, when they got

into mischief together, was certainly not to blame because his friend

could not get wet, sit a kicking donkey, ride in the giddy-go-round,

bear the noise of a cracker, or smoke brown paper with impunity, as he

could.

Not that there was ever the slightest quarrel between the ladies. It

never even came near it, except the day after Tony had been so very sick

with riding Bucephalus in the giddy-go-round. Mrs. Johnson had explained

to Miss Jessamine that the reason Tony was so easily upset, was the

unusual sensitiveness (as a doctor had explained it to her) of the

nervous centres in her family--"Fiddlestick!" So Mrs. Johnson

understood Miss Jessamine to say, but it appeared that she only said

"Treaclestick!" which is quite another thing, and of which Tony was

undoubtedly fond. It was at the fair that Tony was made ill by riding on

Bucephalus. Once a year the Goose Green became the scene of a carnival.

First of all, carts and caravans were rumbling up all along, day and

night. Jackanapes could hear them as he lay in bed, and could hardly

sleep for speculating what booths and whirligigs he should find fairly

established; when he and his dog Spitfire went out after breakfast. As a

matter of fact, he seldom had to wait long for news of the Fair. The

Postman knew the window out of which Jackanapes' yellow head would come,

and was ready with his report.

"Royal Theayter, Master Jackanapes, in the old place, but be careful o'

them seats, sir; they're rickettier than ever. Two sweets and a

ginger-beer under the oak tree, and the Flying Boats is just a-coming

along the road."

No doubt it was partly because he had already suffered severely in the

Flying Boats, that Tony collapsed so quickly in the giddy-go-round. He

only mounted Bucephalus (who was spotted, and had no tail) because

Jackanapes urged him, and held out the ingenious hope that the

round-and-round feeling would very likely cure the up-and-down

sensation. It did not, however, and Tony tumbled off during the first

revolution.

[Illustration]

Jackanapes was not absolutely free from qualms, but having once mounted

the Black Prince he stuck to him as a horseman should. During the first

round he waved his hat, and observed with some concern that the Black

Prince had lost an ear since last Fair; at the second, he looked a little

pale but sat upright, though somewhat unnecessarily rigid; at the

third round he shut his eyes. During the fourth his hat fell off, and he

clasped his horse's neck. By the fifth he had laid his yellow head

against the Black Prince's mane, and so clung anyhow till the

hobby-horses stopped, when the proprietor assisted him to alight, and he

sat down rather suddenly and said he had enjoyed it very much.

The Grey Goose always ran away at the first approach of the caravans,

and never came back to the Green till there was nothing left of the Fair

but footmarks and oyster-shells. Running away was her pet principle; the

only system, she maintained, by which you can live long and easily, and

lose nothing. If you run away when you see danger, you can come back

when all is safe. Run quickly, return slowly, hold your head high, and

gabble as loud as you can, and you'll preserve the respect of the Goose

Green to a peaceful old age. Why should you struggle and get hurt, if

you can lower your head and swerve, and not lose a feather? Why in the

world should any one spoil the pleasure of life, or risk his skin, if he

can help it?

"'What's the use'

Said the Goose."

Before answering which one might have to consider what world--which

life--whether his skin were a goose-skin; but the Grey Goose's head

would never have held all that.

Grass soon grows over footprints, and the village children took the

oyster-shells to trim their gardens with; but the year after Tony rode

Bucephalus there lingered another relic of Fairtime, in which Jackanapes

was deeply interested. "The Green" proper was originally only part of a

straggling common, which in its turn merged into some wilder waste land

where gipsies sometimes squatted if the authorities would allow them,

especially after the annual Fair. And it was after the Fair that

Jackanapes, out rambling by himself, was knocked over by the Gipsy's son

riding the Gipsy's red-haired pony at break-neck pace across the common.

Jackanapes got up and shook himself, none the worse, except for being

heels over head in love with the red-haired pony. What a rate he went

at! How he spurned the ground with his nimble feet! How his red coat

shone in the sunshine! And what bright eyes peeped out of his dark

forelock as it was blown by the wind!

The Gipsy boy had had a fright, and he was willing enough to reward

Jackanapes for not having been hurt, by consenting to let him have a

ride.

"Do you mean to kill the little fine gentleman, and swing us all on the

gibbet, you rascal?" screamed the Gipsy-mother, who came up just as

Jackanapes and the pony set off.

"He would get on," replied her son. "It'll not kill him. He'll fall on

his yellow head, and it's as tough as a cocoanut."

But Jackanapes did not fall. He stuck to the red-haired pony as he had

stuck to the hobbyhorse; but oh, how different the delight of this wild

gallop with flesh and blood! Just as his legs were beginning to feel as

if he did not feel them, the Gipsy boy cried "Lollo!" Round went the

pony so unceremoniously, that, with as little ceremony, Jackanapes clung

to his neck, and he did not properly recover himself before Lollo

stopped with a jerk at the place where they had started.

"Is his name Lollo?" asked Jackanapes, his hand lingering in the wiry

mane.

"Yes."

"What does Lollo mean?"

"Red."

"Is Lollo your pony?"

"No. My father's." And the Gipsy boy led Lollo away.

At the first opportunity Jackanapes stole away again to the common. This

time he saw the Gipsy-father, smoking a dirty pipe.

"Lollo is your pony, isn't he?" said Jackanapes.

"Yes."

"He's a very nice one."

"He's a racer."

"You don't want to sell him, do you?"

"Fifteen pounds," said the Gipsy-father; and Jackanapes sighed and went

home again. That very afternoon he and Tony rode the two donkeys, and

Tony managed to get thrown, and even Jackanapes' donkey kicked. But it

was jolting, clumsy work after the elastic swiftness and the dainty

mischief of the red-haired pony.

A few days later Miss Jessamine spoke very seriously to Jackanapes. She

was a good deal agitated as she told him that his grandfather, the

General, was coming to the Green, and that he must be on his very best

behavior during the visit. If it had been feasible to leave off calling

him Jackanapes and to get used to his baptismal name of Theodore before

the day after to-morrow (when the General was due), it would have been

satisfactory. But Miss Jessamine feared it would be impossible in

practice, and she had scruples about it on principle. It would not seem

quite truthful, although she had always most fully intended that he

should be called Theodore when he had outgrown the ridiculous

appropriateness of his nickname. The fact was that he had not outgrown

it, but he must take care to remember who was meant when his grandfather

said Theodore.

Indeed for that matter he must take care all along.

"You are apt to be giddy, Jackanapes," said Miss Jessamine.

"Yes aunt," said Jackanapes, thinking of the hobby-horses.

"You are a good boy, Jackanapes. Thank GOD, I can tell your grandfather

that. An obedient boy, an honorable boy, and a kind-hearted boy. But you

are--in short, you _are_ a Boy, Jackanapes. And I hope,"--added

Miss Jessamine, desperate with the results of experience--"that the

General knows that Boys will be Boys."

[Illustration]

What mischief could be foreseen, Jackanapes promised to guard against.

He was to keep his clothes and his hands clean, to look over his

catechism, not to put sticky things in his pockets, to keep that hair of

his smooth--("It's the wind that blows it, Aunty," said

Jackanapes--"I'll send by the coach for some bear's-grease," said Miss

Jessamine, tying a knot in her pocket-handkerchief)--not to burst in at

the parlor door, not to talk at the top of his voice, not to crumple his

Sunday frill, and to sit quite quiet during the sermon, to be sure to

say "sir" to the General, to be careful about rubbing his shoes on the

doormat, and to bring his lesson-books to his aunt at once that she

might iron down the dogs' ears. The General arrived, and for the first

day all went well, except that Jackanapes' hair was as wild as usual,

for the hair-dresser had no bear's-grease left. He began to feel more at

ease with his grandfather, and disposed to talk confidentially with him,

as he did with the Postman. All that the General felt it would take too

long to tell, but the result was the same. He was disposed to talk

confidentially with Jackanapes.

"Mons'ous pretty place this," he said, looking out of the lattice on to

the Green, where the grass was vivid with sunset, and the shadows were

long and peaceful.

"You should see it in Fair-week, sir," said Jackanapes, shaking his

yellow mop, and leaning back in his one of the two Chippendale armchairs

in which they sat.

"A fine time that, eh?" said the General, with a twinkle in his left

eye. (The other was glass.)

Jackanapes shook his hair once more. "I enjoyed this last one the best

of all," he said. "I'd so much money."

"By George, it's not a common complaint in these bad times. How much had

ye?"

"I'd two shillings. A new shilling Aunty gave me, and elevenpence I had

saved up, and a penny from the Postman--_sir_!" added Jackanapes

with a jerk, having forgotten it.

"And how did ye spend it--_sir_?" inquired the General. Jackanapes

spread his ten fingers on the arms of his chair, and shut his eyes that

he might count the more conscientiously.

"Watch-stand for Aunty, threepence. Trumpet for myself, twopence, that's

fivepence. Ginger-nuts for Tony, twopence, and a mug with a Grenadier on

for the Postman, fourpence, that's elevenpence. Shooting-gallery a

penny, that's a shilling. Giddy-go-round, a penny, that's one and a

penny. Treating Tony, one and twopence. Flying Boats (Tony paid for

himself), a penny, one and threepence. Shooting-gallery again, one and

four-pence; Fat Woman a penny, one and fivepence. Giddy-go-round again,

one and sixpence. Shooting-gallery, one and sevenpence. Treating Tony,

and then he wouldn't shoot, so I did, one and eightpence. Living

Skeleton, a penny--no, Tony treated me, the Living Skeleton doesn't

count. Skittles, a penny, one and ninepence Mermaid (but when we got

inside she was dead), a penny, one and tenpence. Theatre, a penny

(Priscilla Partington, or the Green Lane Murder. A beautiful young lady,

sir, with pink cheeks and a real pistol), that's one and elevenpence.

Ginger beer, a penny (I _was_ so thirsty!) two shillings. And then

the Shooting-gallery man gave me a turn for nothing, because, he said, I

was a real gentleman, and spent my money like a man."

"So you do, sir, so you do!" cried the General. "Why, sir, you spend it

like a prince--And now I suppose you've not got a penny in your pocket?"

"Yes I have," said Jackanapes. "Two pennies. They are saving up." And

Jackanapes jingled them with his hand.

"You don't want money except at fair-times, I suppose?" said the

General.

Jackanapes shook his mop.

"If I could have as much as I want, I should know what to buy," said he.

"And how much do you want, if you could get it?"

"Wait a minute, sir, till I think what twopence from fifteen pounds

leaves. Two from nothing you can't, but borrow twelve. Two from twelve,

ten, and carry one. Please remember ten, sir, when I ask you. One from

nothing you can't, borrow twenty. One from twenty, nineteen, and carry

one. One from fifteen, fourteen. Fourteen pounds nineteen and--what did I

tell you to remember?"

"Ten," said the General.

"Fourteen pounds nineteen shillings and ten-pence then, is what I want,"

said Jackanapes.

"Bless my soul, what for?"

"To buy Lollo with. Lollo means red, sir. The Gipsy's red-haired pony,

sir. Oh, he is beautiful! You should see his coat in the sunshine! You

should see his mane! You should see his tail! Such little feet, sir, and

they go like lightning! Such a dear face, too, and eyes like a mouse!

But he's a racer, and the Gipsy wants fifteen pounds for him."

"If he's a racer, you couldn't ride him. Could you?"

"No--o, sir, but I can stick to him. I did the other day."

"You did, did you? Well, I'm fond of riding myself, and if the beast is

as good as you say, he might suit me."

"You're too tall for Lollo, I think," said Jackanapes, measuring his

grandfather with his eye.

"I can double up my legs, I suppose. We'll have a look at him

to-morrow."

"Don't you weigh a good deal?" asked Jackanapes.

"Chiefly waistcoats," said the General, slapping the breast of his

military frock-coat. "We'll have the little racer on the Green the first

thing in the morning. Glad you mentioned it, grandson. Glad you

mentioned it."

The General was as good as his word. Next morning the Gipsy and Lollo,

Miss Jessamine, Jackanapes and his grandfather and his dog Spitfire,

were all gathered at one end of the Green in a group, which so aroused

the innocent curiosity of Mrs. Johnson, as she saw it from one of her

upper windows, that she and the children took their early promenade

rather earlier than usual. The General talked to the Gipsy, and

Jackanapes fondled Lollo's mane, and did not know whether he should be

more glad or miserable if his grandfather bought him.

"Jackanapes!"

"Yes, sir!"

"I've bought Lollo, but I believe you were right. He hardly stands high

enough for me. If you can ride him to the other end of the Green, I'll

give him to you."

How Jackanapes tumbled on to Lollo's back he never knew. He had just

gathered up the reins when the Gipsy-father took him by the arm.

"If you want to make Lollo go fast, my little gentleman--"

"_I_ can make him go!" said Jackanapes, and drawing from his pocket

the trumpet he had bought in the fair, he blew a blast both loud and

shrill.

Away went Lollo, and away went Jackanapes' hat. His golden hair flew out,

an aureole from which his cheeks shone red and distended with

trumpeting. Away went Spitfire, mad with the rapture of the race, and

the wind in his silky ears. Away went the geese, the cocks, the hens,

and the whole family of Johnson. Lucy clung to her mamma, Jane saved

Emily by the gathers of her gown, and Tony saved himself by a

somersault.

[Illustration]

The Grey Goose was just returning when Jackanapes and Lollo rode back,

Spitfire panting behind.

"Good, my little gentleman, good!" said the Gipsy. "You were born to the

saddle. You've the flat thigh, the strong knee, the wiry back, and the

light caressing hand, all you want is to learn the whisper Come here!"

"What was that dirty fellow talking about, grandson?" asked the General.

"I can't tell you, sir. It's a secret."

They were sitting in the window again, in the two Chippendale

arm-chairs, the General devouring every line of his grandson's face,

with strange spasms crossing his own.

"You must love your aunt very much, Jackanapes?"

"I do, sir," said Jackanapes warmly.

"And whom do you love next best to your aunt?"

The ties of blood were pressing very strongly on the General himself,

and perhaps he thought of Lollo. But Love is not bought in a day, even

with fourteen pounds nineteen shillings and ten-pence. Jackanapes

answered quite readily, "The Postman."

"Why the Postman?"

"He knew my father," said Jackanapes, "and he tells me about him, and

about his black mare. My father was a soldier, a brave soldier. He died

at Waterloo. When I grow up I want to be a soldier too." "So you shall,

my boy. So you shall."

"Thank you, grandfather. Aunty doesn't want me to be a soldier for fear

of being killed."

"Bless my life! Would she have you get into a feather-bed and stay

there? Why, you might be killed by a thunderbolt, if you were a

butter-merchant!"

"So I might. I shall tell her so. What a funny fellow you are, sir! I

say, do you think my father knew the Gipsy's secret? The Postman says he

used to whisper to his black mare."

"Your father was taught to ride as a child, by one of those horsemen of

the East who swoop and dart and wheel about a plain like swallows in

autumn. Grandson! Love me a little too. I can tell you more about your

father than the Postman can."

"I do love you," said Jackanapes. "Before you came I was frightened. I'd

no notion you were so nice."

"Love me always, boy, whatever I do or leave undone. And--God help

me--whatever you do or leave undone, I'll love you! There shall never be

a cloud between us for a day; no, sir, not for an hour. We're imperfect

enough, all of us, we needn't be so bitter; and life is uncertain enough

at its safest, we needn't waste its opportunities. Look at me! Here sit

I, after a dozen battles and some of the worst climates in the world,

and by yonder lych gate lies your mother, who didn't move five miles, I

suppose, from your aunt's apron-strings,--dead in her teens; my

golden-haired daughter, whom I never saw."

Jackanapes was terribly troubled.

"Don't cry, grandfather," he pleaded, his own blue eyes round with

tears. "I will love you very much, and I will try to be very good. But I

should like to be a soldier."

"You shall, my boy, you shall. You've more claims for a commission than

you know of. Cavalry, I suppose; eh, ye young Jackanapes? Well, well; if

you live to be an honor to your country, this old heart shall grow young

again with pride for you; and if you die in the service of your

country--GOD bless me, it can but break for ye!"

And beating the region which he said was all waistcoats, as if they

stifled him, the old man got up and strode out on to the Green.

CHAPTER IV.

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his

life for his friends."--JOHN XV. 13.

[Illustration]

Twenty and odd years later the Grey Goose was still alive, and in full

possession of her faculties, such as they were. She lived slowly and

carefully, and she lived long. So did Miss Jessamine; but the General

was dead.

He had lived on the Green for many years, during which he and the

Postman saluted each other with a punctiliousness that it almost drilled

one to witness. He would have completely spoiled Jackanapes if Miss

Jessamine's conscience would have let him; otherwise he somewhat

dragooned his neighbors, and was as positive about parish matters as a

ratepayer about the army. A stormy-tempered, tender-hearted soldier,

irritable with the suffering of wounds of which he never spoke, whom all

the village followed to his grave with tears.

The General's death was a great shock to Miss Jessamine, and her nephew

stayed with her for some little time after the funeral. Then he was

obliged to join his regiment, which was ordered abroad.

One effect of the conquest which the General had gained over the

affections of the village, was a considerable abatement of the popular

prejudice against "the military." Indeed the village was now somewhat

importantly represented in the army. There was the General himself, and

the Postman, and the Black Captain's tablet in the church, and

Jackanapes, and Tony Johnson, and a Trumpeter.

Tony Johnson had no more natural taste for fighting than for riding, but

he was as devoted as ever to Jackanapes, and that was how it came about

that Mr. Johnson bought him a commission in the same cavalry regiment

that the General's grandson (whose commission had been given him by the

Iron Duke) was in, and that he was quite content to be the butt of the

mess where Jackanapes was the hero; and that when Jackanapes wrote home

to Miss Jessamine, Tony wrote with the same purpose to his mother;

namely, to demand her congratulations that they were on active service

at last, and were ordered to the front. And he added a postscript to the

effect that she could have no idea how popular Jackanapes was, nor how

splendidly he rode the wonderful red charger whom he had named after his

old friend Lollo.

* * * * *

"Sound Retire!"

A Boy Trumpeter, grave with the weight of responsibilities and

accoutrements beyond his years, and stained, so that his own mother

would not have known him, with the sweat and dust of battle, did as he

was bid; and then pushing his trumpet pettishly aside, adjusted his

weary legs for the hundredth time to the horse which was a world too big

for him, and muttering, "'Tain't a pretty tune," tried to see something

of this, his first engagement, before it came to an end.

Being literally in the thick of it, he could hardly have seen less or

known less of what happened in that particular skirmish if he had been

at home in England. For many good reasons; including dust and smoke, and

that what attention he dared distract from his commanding officer was

pretty well absorbed by keeping his hard-mouthed troop-horse in hand,

under pain of execration by his neighbors in the melée. By-and-by, when

the newspapers came out, if he could get a look at one before it was

thumbed to bits, he would learn that the enemy had appeared from ambush

in overwhelming numbers, and that orders had been given to fall back,

which was done slowly and in good order, the men fighting as they

retired.

[Illustration]

Born and bred on the Goose Green, the youngest of Mr. Johnson's

gardener's numerous off-spring, the boy had given his family "no peace"

till they let him "go for a soldier" with Master Tony and Master

Jackanapes. They consented at last, with more tears than they shed when

an elder son was sent to jail for poaching, and the boy was perfectly

happy in his life, and full of _esprit de corps_. It was this which

had been wounded by having to sound retreat for "the young gentlemen's

regiment," the first time he served with it before the enemy, and he was

also harassed by having completely lost sight of Master Tony. There had

been some hard fighting before the backward movement began, and he had

caught sight of him once, but not since. On the other hand, all the

pulses of his village pride had been stirred by one or two visions of

Master Jackanapes whirling about on his wonderful horse. He had been

easy to distinguish, since an eccentric blow had bared his head without

hurting it, for his close golden mop of hair gleamed in the hot sunshine

as brightly as the steel of the sword flashing round it.

Of the missiles that fell pretty thickly, the Boy Trumpeter did not take

much notice. First, one can't attend to everything, and his hands were

full. Secondly, one gets used to anything. Thirdly, experience soon

teaches one, in spite of proverbs, how very few bullets find their

billet. Far more unnerving is the mere suspicion of fear or even of

anxiety in the human mass around you. The Boy was beginning to wonder if

there were any dark reason for the increasing pressure, and whether they

would be allowed to move back more quickly, when the smoke in front

lifted for a moment, and he could see the plain, and the enemy's line

some two hundred yards away.

And across the plain between them, he saw Master Jackanapes galloping

alone at the top of Lollo's speed, their faces to the enemy, his golden

head at Lollo's ear.

But at this moment noise and smoke seemed to burst out on every side,

the officer shouted to him to sound retire, and between trumpeting and

bumping about on his horse, he saw and heard no more of the incidents of

his first battle.

Tony Johnson was always unlucky with horses, from the days of the

giddy-go-round onwards. On this day--of all days in the year--his own

horse was on the sick list, and he had to ride an inferior,

ill-conditioned beast, and fell off that, at the very moment when it was

a matter of life or death to be able to ride away. The horse fell on

him, but struggled up again, and Tony managed to keep hold of it. It was

in trying to remount that he discovered, by helplessness and anguish,

that one of his legs was crushed and broken, and that no feat of which

he was master would get him into the saddle. Not able even to stand

alone, awkwardly, agonizingly unable to mount his restive horse, his

life was yet so strong within him! And on one side of him rolled the

dust and smoke-cloud of his advancing foe, and on the other, that which

covered his retreating friends.

He turned one piteous gaze after them, with a bitter twinge, not of

reproach, but of loneliness; and then, dragging himself up by the side

of his horse, he turned the other way and drew out his pistol, and

waited for the end. Whether he waited seconds or minutes he never knew,

before some one gripped him by the arm.

"Jackanapes! GOD bless you! It's my left leg. If you could get me on--"

It was like Tony's luck that his pistol went off at his horse's tail,

and made it plunge; but Jackanapes threw him across the saddle.

"Hold on anyhow, and stick your spur in. I'll lead him. Keep your head

down, they're firing high."

And Jackanapes laid his head down--to Lollo's ear.

It was when they were fairly off, that a sudden upspringing of the enemy

in all directions had made it necessary to change the gradual retirement

of our force into as rapid a retreat as possible. And when Jackanapes

became aware of this, and felt the lagging and swerving of Tony's horse,

he began to wish he had thrown his friend across his own saddle, and

left their lives to Lollo.

When Tony became aware of it, several things came into his head. 1. That

the dangers of their ride for life were now more than doubled. 2. That

if Jackanapes and Lollo were not burdened with him they would

undoubtedly escape. 3. That Jackanapes' life was infinitely valuable,

and his--Tony's--was not. 4. That this--if he could seize it--was the

supremest of all the moments in which he had tried to assume the virtues

which Jackanapes had by nature; and that if he could be courageous and

unselfish now--

He caught at his own reins and spoke very loud--

"Jackanapes! It won't do. You and Lollo must go on. Tell the fellows I

gave you back to them, with all my heart. Jackanapes, if you love me,

leave me!"

There was a daffodil light over the evening sky in front of them, and it

shone strangely on Jackanapes' hair and face. He turned with an odd look

in his eyes that a vainer man than Tony Johnson might have taken for

brotherly pride. Then he shook his mop and laughed at him.

[Illustration]

"_Leave you?_ To save my skin? No, Tony, not to save my soul!"

CHAPTER V.

Mr. VALIANT _summoned. His will. His last words._

Then, said he, "I am going to my Father's.... My Sword I

give to him that shall succeed me in my Pilgrimage, and my

Courage and Skill to him that can get it." ... And as he

went down deeper, he said, "Grave, where is thy Victory?"

So he passed over, and all the Trumpets sounded for him on

the other side.

BUNYAN'S _Pilgrim's, Progress_.

[Illustration]

Coming out of a hospital-tent, at headquarters, the surgeon cannonaded

against, and rebounded from, another officer; a sallow man, not young,

with a face worn more by ungentle experiences than by age; with weary

eyes that kept their own counsel, iron gray hair, and a moustache that

was as if a raven had laid its wing across his lips and sealed them.

"Well?"

"Beg pardon, Major. Didn't see you. Oh, compound fracture and bruises,

but it's all right. He'll pull through."

"Thank GOD."

It was probably an involuntary expression, for prayer and praise were

not much in the Major's line, as a jerk of the surgeon's head would have

betrayed to an observer. He was a bright little man, with his feelings

showing all over him, but with gallantry and contempt of death enough

for both sides of his profession; who took a cool head, a white

handkerchief and a case of instruments, where other men went hot-blooded

with weapons, and who was the biggest gossip, male or female, of the

regiment. Not even the Major's taciturnity daunted him.

"Didn't think he'd as much pluck about him as he has. He'll do all right

if he doesn't fret himself into a fever about poor Jackanapes."

"Whom are you talking about?" asked the Major hoarsely.

"Young Johnson. He--"

"What about Jackanapes?"

"Don't you know? Sad business. Rode back for Johnson, and brought him

in; but, monstrous ill-luck, hit as they rode. Left lung--"

"Will he recover?"

"No. Sad business."

"What a frame--what limbs--what health--and what good looks? Finest

young fellow--"

"Where is he?"

"In his own tent," said the surgeon sadly.

The Major wheeled and left him.

* * * * *

"Can I do anything else for you?"

"Nothing, thank you. Except--Major! I wish I could get you to appreciate

Johnson."

"This is not an easy moment, Jackanapes."

"Let me tell you, sir--_he_ never will--that if he could have

driven me from him, he would be lying yonder at this moment, and I

should be safe and sound."

The Major laid his hand over his mouth, as if to keep back a wish he

would have been ashamed to utter.

"I've known old Tony from a child. He's a fool on impulse, a good man

and a gentleman in principle. And he acts on principle, which it's not

every--some water, please! Thank you, sir. It's very hot, and yet one's

feet get uncommonly cold. Oh, thank you, thank you. He's no fire-eater,

but he has a trained conscience and a tender heart, and he'll do his

duty when a braver and more selfish man might fail you. But he wants

encouragement; and when I'm gone----"

"He shall have encouragement. You have my word for it. Can I do nothing

else?"

"Yes, Major. A favor."

"Thank you, Jackanapes."

"Be Lollo's master, and love him as well as you can. He's used to it."

"Wouldn't you rather Johnson had him?"

The blue eyes twinkled in spite of mortal pain.

"Tony _rides_ on principle, Major. His legs are bolsters, and will

be to the end of the chapter. I couldn't insult dear Lollo, but if you

don't care----"

"Whilst I live----which will be longer than I desire or

deserve----Lollo shall want nothing, but----you. I have too little

tenderness for----my dear boy, you're faint. Can you spare me for a

moment?"

"No, stay--Major!"

"What? What?"

"My head drifts so--if you wouldn't mind."

"Yes! Yes!"

"Say a prayer by me. Out loud please, I am getting deaf."

"My dearest Jackanapes--my dear boy----"

"One of the Church Prayers--Parade Service, you know----"

"I see. But the fact is--GOD forgive me, Jackanapes--I'm a very

different sort of fellow to some of you youngsters. Look here, let me

fetch--"

But Jackanapes' hand was in his, and it wouldn't let go.

There was a brief and bitter silence.

"'Pon my soul I can only remember the little one at the end."

"Please," whispered Jackanapes.

Pressed by the conviction that what little he could do it was his duty

to do, the Major--kneeling--bared his head, and spoke loudly, clearly,

and very reverently--

"The Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ--"

Jackanapes moved his left hand to his right one, which still held the

Major's--

"--The love of GOD."

And with that--Jackanapes died.

CHAPTER VI.

[Illustration]

"Und so ist der blaue Himmel grösser als jedes

Gewolk darin, und dauerhafter dazu."

JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

Jackanapes' death was sad news for the Goose Green, a sorrow justly

qualified by honorable pride in his gallantry and devotion. Only the

Cobbler dissented, but that was his way. He said he saw nothing in it

but foolhardiness and vainglory. They might both have been killed, as

easy as not, and then where would ye have been? A man's life was a man's

life, and one life was as good as another. No one would catch him

throwing his away. And, for that matter, Mrs. Johnson could spare a

child a great deal better than Miss Jessamine.

But the parson preached Jackanapes' funeral sermon on the text,

"Whosoever will save his life shall lose it; and whosoever will lose his

life for My sake shall find it;" and all the village went and wept to

hear him.

Nor did Miss Jessamine see her loss from the Cobbler's point of view. On

the contrary, Mrs. Johnson said she never to her dying day should forget

how, when she went to condole with her, the old lady came forward, with

gentle-womanly self-control, and kissed her, and thanked GOD that her

dear nephew's effort had been blessed with success, and that this sad

war had made no gap in her friend's large and happy home circle.

"But she's a noble, unselfish woman," sobbed Mrs. Johnson, "and she

taught Jackanapes to be the same, and that's how it is that my Tony has

been spared to me. And it must be sheer goodness in Miss Jessamine, for

what can she know of a mother's feelings? And I'm sure most people seem

to think that if you've a large family you don't know one from another

any more than they do, and that a lot of children are like a lot of

store-apples, if one's taken it won't be missed."

Lollo--the first Lollo, the Gipsy's Lollo--very aged, draws Miss

Jessamine's bath-chair slowly up and down the Goose Green in the

sunshine.

The Ex-postman walks beside him, which Lollo tolerates to the level of

his shoulder. If the Postman advances any nearer to his head, Lollo

quickens his pace, and were the Postman to persist in the injudicious

attempt, there is, as Miss Jessamine says, no knowing what might happen.

In the opinion of the Goose Green, Miss Jessamine has borne her troubles

"wonderfully." Indeed, to-day, some of the less delicate and less

intimate of those who see everything from the upper windows, say (well

behind her back) that "the old lady seems quite lively with her military

beaux again."

[Illustration]

The meaning of this is, that Captain Johnson is leaning over one side of

her chair, whilst by the other bends a brother officer who is staying

with him, and who has manifested an extraordinary interest in Lollo. He

bends lower and lower, and Miss Jessamine calls to the Postman to

request Lollo to be kind enough to stop, whilst she is fumbling for

something which always hangs by her side, and has got entangled with her

spectacles.

It is a two-penny trumpet, bought years ago in the village fair, and

over it she and Captain Johnson tell, as best they can, between them,

the story of Jackanapes' ride across the Goose Green; and how he won

Lollo--the Gipsy's Lollo--the racer Lollo--dear Lollo--faithful

Lollo--Lollo the never vanquished--Lollo the tender servant of his old

mistress. And Lollo's ears twitch at every mention of his name.

Their hearer does not speak, but he never moves his eyes from the

trumpet, and when the tale is told, he lifts Miss Jessamine's hand and

presses his heavy black moustache in silence to her trembling fingers.

The sun, betting gently to his rest, embroiders the sombre foliage of

the oak-tree with threads of gold. The Grey Goose is sensible of an

atmosphere of repose, and puts up one leg for the night. The grass glows

with a more vivid green, and, in answer to a ringing call from Tony, his

sisters, fluttering over the daisies in pale-hued muslins, come out of

their ever-open door, like pretty pigeons form a dovecote.

And, if the good gossips, eyes do not deceive them, all the Miss

Johnsons, and both the officers, go wandering off into the lanes, where

bryony wreaths still twine about the brambles.

* * * * *

A sorrowful story, and ending badly?

Nay, Jackanapes, for the end is not yet.

A life wasted that might have been useful?

Men who have died for men, in all ages, forgive the thought!

There is a heritage of heroic example and noble obligation, not reckoned

in the Wealth of Nations, but essential to a nation's life; the contempt

of which, in any people, may, not slowly, mean even its commercial fall.

Very sweet are the uses of prosperity, the harvests of peace and

progress, the fostering sunshine of health and happiness, and length of

days in the land.

But there be things--oh, sons of what has deserved the name of Great

Britain, forget it not!--"the good of" which and "the use of" which are

beyond all calculation of worldly goods and earthly uses; things such as

Love, and Honor, and the Soul of Man, which cannot be bought with a

price, and which do not die with death. "And they who would fain live

happily EVER after, should not leave these things out of the lessons of

their lives."

DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOT.

* * * * *

PREAMBLE.

A summer's afternoon. Early in the summer, and late in the afternoon;

with odors and colors deepening, and shadows lengthening, towards

evening.

Two gaffers gossiping, seated side by side upon a Yorkshire wall. A wall

of sandstone of many colors, glowing redder and yellower as the sun goes

down; well cushioned with moss and lichen, and deep set in rank grass on

this side, where the path runs, and in blue hyacinths on that side,

where the wood is, and where--on the gray and still naked branches of

young oaks--sit divers crows, not less solemn than the gaffers, and also

gossiping.

One gaffer in work-day clothes, not unpicturesque of form and hue. Gray,

home-knit stockings, and coat and knee-breeches of corduroy, which takes

tints from Time and Weather as harmoniously as wooden palings do; so

that field laborers (like some insects) seem to absorb or mimic the

colors of the vegetation round them and of their native soil. That is,

on work-days. Sunday-best is a different matter, and in this the other

gaffer was clothed. He was dressed like the crows above him, _fit

excepted_: the reason for which was, that he was only a visitor, a

revisitor to the home of his youth, and wore his Sunday (and funeral)

suit to mark the holiday.

Continuing the path, a stone pack-horse track, leading past a hedge

snow-white with may, and down into a little wood, from the depths of

which one could hear a brook babbling. Then up across the sunny field

beyond, and yet up over another field to where the brow of the hill is

crowned by old farm-buildings standing against the sky.

Down this stone path a young man going whistling home to tea. Then

staying to bend a swarthy face to the white may to smell it, and then

plucking a huge branch on which the blossom lies like a heavy fall of

snow, and throwing that aside for a better, and tearing off another and

yet another, with the prodigal recklessness of a pauper; and so,

whistling, on into the wood with his arms full.

Down the sunny field, as he goes up it, a woman coming to meet him--with

_her_ arms full. Filled by a child with a may-white frock, and hair

shining with the warm colors of the sandstone. A young woman, having a

fair forehead visible a long way off, and buxom cheeks, and steadfast

eyes. When they meet he kisses her, and she pulls his dark hair and

smooths her own, and cuffs him in country fashion. Then they change

burdens, and she takes the may into her apron (stooping to pick up

fallen bits), and the child sits on the man's shoulder, and cuffs and

lugs its father as the mother did, and is chidden by her and kissed by

him. And all the babbling of their chiding and crowing and laughter

comes across the babbling of the brook to the ears of the old gaffers

gossiping on the wall.

Gaffer I. spits out an over-munched stalk of meadow soft-grass, and

speaks:

"D'ye see yon chap?"

Gaffer II. takes up his hat and wipes it round with a spotted

handkerchief (for your Sunday hat is a heating thing for work-day wear),

and puts it on, and makes reply:

"Aye. But he beats me. And--see there!--he's t'first that's beat me yet.

Why, lad! I've met young chaps to-day I could ha' sworn to for mates of

mine forty years back--if I hadn't ha' been i't' churchyard spelling

over their fathers' tumstuns!"

"Aye. There's a many old standards gone home o' lately."

"What do they call _him?_"

"T' young chap?"

"Aye."

"They _call_ him--Darwin."

"Dar--win? I should known a Darwin. They're old standards, is Darwins.

What's he to Daddy Darwin of t' Dovecot yonder?"

"He _owns_ t' Dovecot. Did ye see t' lass?"

"Aye. Shoo's his missus, I reckon?"

"Aye."

"What did they call her?"

"Phoebe Shaw they called her. And if she'd been _my_ lass--but

that's nother here nor there, and he's got t' Dovecot."

"Shaw? _They're_ old standards, is Shaws. Phoebe? They called her

mother Phoebe. Phoebe Johnson. She were a dainty lass! My father were

very fond of Phoebe Johnson. He said she allus put him i' mind of our

orchard on drying days; pink and white apple-blossom and clean clothes.

And yon's her daughter? Where d'ye say t'young chap come from? He don't

look like hereabouts."

"He don't come from hereabouts. And yet he do come from hereabouts, as

one may say. Look ye here. He come from t' wukhus. That's the short and

the long of it."

"_The workhouse!_"

"Aye."

Stupefaction. The crows chattering wildly overhead.

"And he owns Darwin's Dovecot?"

"He owns Darwin's Dovecot."

"And how i' t' name o' all things did that come about'!"

"Why, I'll tell thee. It was i' this fashion."

* * * * *

Not without reason does the wary writer put gossip in the mouths of

gaffers rather than of gammers. Male gossips love scandal as dearly as

female gossips do, and they bring to it the stronger relish and energies

of their sex. But these were country gaffers, whose speech--like

shadows--grows lengthy in the leisurely hours of eventide. The gentle

reader shall have the tale in plain narration.

NOTE--It will be plain to the reader that the birds here described are

Rooks (_corvus frugilegus_). I have allowed myself to speak of them

by their generic or family name of Crow, this being a common country

practice. The genus _corvus_, or _Crow_, includes the Raven,

the Carrion Crow, the Hooded Crow, the Jackdaw, and the Rook.

SCENE I.

One Saturday night (some eighteen years earlier than the date of this

gaffer-gossiping) the parson's daughter sat in her own room before the

open drawer of a bandy-legged black oak table, _balancing her

bags_. The bags were money-bags, and the matter shall be made clear

at once.

In this parish, as in others, progress and the multiplication of weapons

with which civilization and the powers of goodness push their conquests

over brutality and the powers of evil, had added to the original duties

of the parish priest, a multifarious and all but impracticable variety

of offices; which, in ordinary and late conditions, would have been

performed by several more or less salaried clerks, bankers, accountants,

secretaries, librarians, club-committees, teachers, lecturers, discount

for ready-money dealers in clothing, boots, blankets, and coal,

domestic-servant agencies, caterers for the public amusement, and

preservers of the public peace.

The country parson (no less than statesmen and princes, than men of

science and of letters) is responsible for a great deal of his work that

is really done by the help-mate--woman. This explains why five out of

the young lady's moneybags bore the following inscriptions in

marking-ink: "Savings' bank," "Clothing club," "Library," "Magazines and

hymn-books," "Three-halfpenny club"--and only three bore reference to

private funds, as--"House-money"--"Allowance "--"Charity."

It was the bag bearing this last and greatest name which the parson's

daughter now seized and emptied into her lap. A ten-shilling piece, some

small silver, and twopence halfpenny jingled together, and roused a

silver-haired, tawny-pawed terrier, who left the hearthrug and came to

smell what was the matter. His mistress's right hand--absently

caressing--quieted his feelings; and with the left she held the

ten-shilling piece between finger and thumb, and gazed thoughtfully at

the other bags as they squatted in a helpless row, with twine-tied

mouths hanging on all sides. It was only after anxious consultation with

an account-book that the half-sovereign was exchanged for silver; thanks

to the clothing-club bag, which looked leaner for the accommodation. In

the three-halfpenny bag (which bulged with pence) some silver was

further solved into copper, and the charity bag was handsomely distended

before the whole lot was consigned once more to the table-drawer.

Any one accustomed to book-keeping must smile at this bag-keeping of

accounts; but the parson's daughter could never "bring her mind" to

keeping the funds apart on paper, and mixing the actual cash. Indeed,

she could never have brought her conscience to it. Unless she had taken

the tenth for "charity" from her dress and pocket-money in coin, and put

it then and there into the charity bag, this self-imposed rule of the

duty of almsgiving would not have been performed to her soul's peace.

The problem which had been exercising her mind that Saturday night was

how to spend what was left of her benevolent fund in a treat for the

children of the neighboring work-house. The fund was low, and this had

decided the matter. The following Wednesday would be her twenty-first

birthday. If the children came to tea with her, the foundation of the

entertainment would, in the natural course of things, be laid in the

Vicarage kitchen. The charity bag would provide the extras of the feast.

Nuts, toys, and the like.

When the parson's daughter locked the drawer of the bandy-legged table,

she did so with the vigor of one who has made up her mind, and set about

the rest of her Saturday night's duties without further delay.

She put out her Sunday clothes, and her Bible and Prayer-book, and

class-book and pencil, on the oak chest at the foot of the bed. She

brushed and combed the silver-haired terrier, who looked abjectly

depressed whilst this was doing, and preposterously proud when it was

done. She washed her own hair, and studied her Sunday-school lesson for

the morrow whilst it was drying. She spread a colored quilt at the foot

of her white one for the terrier to sleep on--a slur which he always

deeply resented.

Then she went to bed, and slept as one ought to sleep on Saturday night,

who is bound to be at the Sunday School by 9.15 on the following

morning, with a clear mind on the Rudiments of the Faith, the history of

the Prophet Elisha, and the destinations of each of the parish

magazines.