It was summertime, years ago, in the early days of the war.
Having distributed myself quite satisfactorily within a hammock, I had
just decided that nothing short of invasion or the luncheon bell should
disturb me, when my flapper niece shot forth in my direction from the
French windows of the morning-room.
In one hand she flourished an empty birdcage and in the other what
proved to be a tin of enormous hemp seeds.
"Wake up!" she cried as she approached rapidly through the near
distance. "The precious Balaam has escaped! The brute must have got out
while I was fetching his clean water, and the windows were _wide_ open!"
The prospect of a canary hunt across country with a temperature at 80
degrees in the shade positively made me shiver.
"Your father is the man to catch it for you, Eileen," I suggested. "He's
most awfully good at catching things. I--er think he's somewhere on the
tennis-court."
"He's not, because he was splashing about in the bathroom just now when
I wanted to fill Balaam's water-bottle."
"All right," I said resignedly, "I'll come. Was Balaam the man or the
ass? I forget. And while we're at it why should you call the bird Balaam
at all?"
Eileen was in no mood for foolish questionings.
"Get up!" she ordered. "I call him Balaam because he's not a proper
canary--he's a mule."
"Then I am not at all sure," I began hopefully, "that I can countenance
the keeping of mules in birdcages! Should the Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Animals get to hear of it, they would certainly----"
"There he is!" interrupted Eileen shrilly as something yellowish flew
jerkily across a neighbouring cabbage bed. "That's Balaam! Take the
cage. I'll wait here in case he comes back!"
By the time I had reached the further end of the cabbage bed I was just
in time to see a tawny bird vanish over a hedge, flop tantalisingly
across the road and disappear among the branches of an apple-tree on the
other side.
What I now see to have been a mistaken idea of my duty towards Eileen
led me painfully through two hedges to the foot of the tree in whose
branches Balaam the Mule was possibly enjoying the first-fruits of his
liberty.
In vain I produced vocal effects calculated to charm away the love of
travel from the breast of any canary; then, as Balaam persistently
refused to come to me, I proceeded slowly but surely, and accompanied by
the cage, to make my way to him.
Whether tree-climbing shares the same age limit as that assigned to
recruits, or whether the cage was too severe a handicap, I don't know,
but halfway up I somehow found myself marooned on an obviously
inadequate branch.
For several minutes I balanced uncertainly. Then someone began to pass
along the road beyond the hedge. As it seemed probable that their owner
might prove of use to me, I hailed the footsteps with a shout.
The footsteps stopped and I shouted again.
This time there was a faint scream in answer and a mauve-and-white
bonnet bobbed agitatedly up the road.
After a few more minutes of delicate and masterly balancing I was
relieved to hear the approach of quite a number of people from the other
side of the orchard.
Evidently the mauve-and-white bonnet had thoroughly realized my perilous
position, for my rescuers seemed to include almost the entire village.
Even the Vicar was there, armed with an assegai--no doubt a missionary
trophy. It was thoughtful of them to have turned out in such numbers to
rescue a mere visitor, but still one ploughman with a ladder would have
been ample.
Soon words floated up to me from the mouth of the leading rescuer. "I'll
learn him!" he was saying with fervour. "I'll learn him to come
German-spying round my orchard!"
Balaam or no Balaam, I drew the line at being assegaied to death as a
Teuton spy, so I dropped the cage with a bang and, clinging to the end
of my branch, I at last succeeded in gaining the ground in moderate
safety.
When I had finished explaining about Balaam, they were convinced, though
evidently disappointed.
"You see," explained the Vicar, prodding the apple-tree regretfully with
his assegai, "poor Miss Tittlepatter said that she had been attacked by
German spies from this very orchard."
At the third prod of the Vicar's assegai, a brown-and-yellow bird flew
self-consciously from the top of the apple-tree and perched in full view
on a five-barred gate.
"There he is!" I hissed, moving stealthily forward with the remains of
the birdcage. "There's Balaam the canary!"
"Kenary!" contemptuously remarked the rescuer who had been so anxious to
undertake the education of Teutonic spies. "That ain't no kenary; that's
a bloomin' yellow'ammer!"
* * *
When, a dishevelled wreck, I reached my own gateway, I was met in the
drive by Eileen.
"It's all right after all," she remarked cheerfully. "The stupid bird
was on the curtain pole all the time. So lucky, because, if he _had_ got
out, it would have meant an awful bother. And, I say, is it true that
they've caught a German spy down in the village?"
* * * * *
Illustration: _Salesman._ "NO, SIR, NEITHER OF THESE MASKS WAS MADE IN
GERMANY."
* * * * *
In aid of the Arts Fund for the relief of the many members of the
artistic professions who are in distress owing to the War, a _Matinée_
under the patronage of QUEEN ALEXANDRA will be given at the Royal Opera
House, Covent Garden, on Thursday, Nov. 5, at 3 o'clock. Mr. THOMAS
BEECHAM will produce Bach's _Phoebus and Pan_, and Mr. GRANVILLE
BARKER will produce _Philip the King_, a new play by Mr. JOHN MASEFIELD.
_Mr. Punch_ very heartily commends the cause to his readers.
* * * * *
Illustration:
_Huntsman._ "BLANKETY-BLANK THAT BLOOMIN' KAISER! I WISH MY 'OUNDS 'AD
'IM!"
_Farmer._ "WHAT'S 'E BIN DOIN' TO YOU NOW, JACK?"
_Huntsman._ "DOIN'? JUST LOOK AT THE 'OSSES 'E'S LEFT US TO RIDE!"
* * * * *