Chapter I: Part 1

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BUCOLIC BEATITUDES

_RUSTICUS_

_ILLUSTRATED BY_
DECIE MERWIN

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS
BOSTON

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

_To My Wife
who lets me do these things_

CONTENTS

_Page_

I _Blessed be the Dog_ 1

II _Blessed be the Pig_ 17

III _Blessed be the Hen_ 35

IV _Blessed be the Cow_ 51

V _Blessed be the Horse_ 71

VI _Blessed be the Garden_ 91

BLESSED BE THE DOG

My dog has but one eye. He was the beginning of things. Just how far he has controlled my destiny, just how far he has shaped the lives of those about him, will never be known until the dull human mind has evolved a keener perception of the real values of life and has learned to become conscious of influences too subtle to be recognized by man in his present fallen estate. This is certain: he was the beginning of things. It was he who opened the door and led the way.

I have always felt that I owe that dog an apology which only a life of devotion can express. The bitter truth is—I bought him. What I paid for him is one of those personal secrets which will remain locked in my bosom to the end of time. It is one of those sacred things that even an Internal Revenue Inspector must dismiss in reverent awe, and the Head of the Household must rest content with the explanation that there are but two hidden things in my life: one is the price paid for the dog in question and the other is the extent of my devotion to my wife. After the matter is presented in these terms, further inquiry seems indelicate.

But the bitter fact remains—I did buy him. A dog should never be purchased, should never be made the subject of barter and dickering. A dog may be rescued from abuse, he may be bestowed and accepted as a gift, he may be borrowed and never returned, he may be found and kept, and, in cases of real necessity, he may be stolen in a dignified manner; but he should never be bought. I have heard of men who make a livelihood from the purchase and sale of dogs. I can conceive of them as good husbands and kind fathers, but they still seem to me inhuman monsters, engaged in a sinister traffic.

There seems to be one relationship in a social structure now completely dissected and exposed under the microscope of social investigators, which remains inviolate—a relationship which owes its immunity from investigators to the stupidity characteristic of investigators who ignore the significant and tear the obvious and unimportant into worthless tatters. That relationship is the profoundly significant one existing between a good, bad, or indifferent child and a dog.

With what wealth of ritual do we bestow a name upon a child; with what ecstasies of formality do we celebrate her taking a mate; and yet with what casual indifference do we give that child the first dog! We create a contact—as our scientific friends like to call it—the importance of which no one can conjecture, with a callous unconcern that is the only proper measure of our ignorance.

Here if anywhere is an excuse for formality and the most elaborate and significant ritual. Here is a real chance for genuine good cheer and the sincerest merrymaking, quite unlike that forced and somewhat doubting hilarity that characterizes the average marriage-feast. For in this case we perform the one act allowed us in this earthly pilgrimage in which we are sure to be right: we cannot make a mistake. And certainly when that crowning moment of our existence comes—when as in the fairy tale we make the one wish allowed us—we should do it with a high degree of decorum and with all decent elaboration of detail.

I say we cannot make a mistake—I mean from the child’s standpoint. We may create a relationship trying to the dog, by giving him to a very inferior child upon whom he must lavish years of loving instruction before improvement appears, but we cannot hurt the child by giving him a bad dog, for the simple reason that there is no such thing, broadly speaking, as a bad dog.

There is the occasional dog, of course, who has not withstood the corrupting influences of human associations as well as his more fortunate brothers, but even he is vastly better than no dog at all.

And once the contact made, the relationship established, what unlimited vistas of speculation lie temptingly before the reflective mind! Those two little figures on the hearthrug—one in the image of man, one showing the sleek and perfect lines of a half-wild creature. Two heads together—one of tousled gold, the other close-cropped and tapering to nostrils of nervous sensitiveness; a relaxed and callous paw held firmly in a dimpled human hand. What are they saying to each other? What lies back of those limpid canine eyes, half closed to the glare and warmth of the hearthstone? Something is going on between them, some delicate transmission of emotion, thought, or stimulus, which we know is infinitely good for the soul of the child and we can hope does no harm to the dog.

An unfamiliar footstep is heard, and the picture changes. The relaxed and languid creature is transformed in an instant from a musing, tolerant playmate to a bristling bundle of potential destruction. He stands, alert and vibrant, muscles tense, set for any contingency, ready for any emergency and any sacrifice. The emergency passes, and with an apologetic shake to relieve the tension of his muscles and a half-sneeze to clear the dryness of expectant fangs, he settles once more upon the hearthrug, to resume his mystic communion with the only person in the household with whom he is on terms of complete mutual understanding.

These are the perfect hours of childhood and doghood. They pass, like all perfect things, and are followed by long hours of separation, while the child is absent in one of those institutions ingeniously contrived to remove him from the priceless opportunities of improvement in the society of a dog and to lighten the duties of idle parents, in exchange for a fleeting familiarity with what is cryptically called the “l.c.d.” And while the child is incarcerated in one of those centres of juvenile infection what prodigies of patience does the dog perform!

In my own case there happen to be two avenues of return from these dreary absences, and for long before the hour of arrival they must be watched. Owing to the entire absence of one eye this is a delicate operation, but Cerberus has found one point where with the least muscular exertion he can sweep his tiny horizon with his one remaining eye. And so he waits—not with the imbecile nervous tension and restless pacing of his master, but relaxed and resting.

Suddenly he becomes alert. The peculiar rattle of a certain rear wheel on a certain automobile is recognized by those miraculous ears long before the solitary eye can see the car. He is off—the long vigil is over. Once more life is sweet and full of interest and adventure.

It is idle to prate of the lessons he teaches. They have been told and retold. Patience, loyalty, devotion—we know them all. It is in the finer shades of his relationship with those about him that his quality appears. His is a wonderful life. Countless hours are spent in investigation. Every nook and cranny, every tree and every stone, every dark and mysterious hole, every living creature in pasture, garden, or stable must be run to earth. What sort of data is he gathering, I wonder? What use does he make of it? I do not know; but it is being stored away and tabulated for future reference in a vastly more usable and convenient form than any card index devised by the bungling brain of his master.

These are the busy hours of dog life. How often we encounter him bent on some important errand! I have a friend, the only adult I ever met who really knows a dog—and by the same token he is that rare thing, the gentleman. He too enjoys a long and solitary tramp, and he often meets on the highways and in the wood paths his various canine acquaintances bent on matters of importance. He makes a practice of saluting them with a cordial but respectful “Good morning” or “Good afternoon,” with perhaps a passing allusion to the fine weather. This by way of tribute to a fellow creature with mutual tastes.

But Cerberus knows that all work and no play is a dangerous method of life, and so hours are devoted to recreation. The duties of guardianship and the demands of education are laid aside, and he shows us how to play. Madly, intently, with no thought of appearances, he rushes into play, preferably with others but alone if necessary; and the simplest things suffice—a stick, a stone, a floating bit of feather is all he needs. No elaborate toy, no calculated programme, no long planning, no arguments and disagreements as to the _terminus ad quem_, resulting in half-hearted enjoyment or utter boredom (the usual result of human recreations), nothing but utter abandonment to the pleasure of the moment. I envy Cerberus his play more than I ever envied my neighbor’s laboriously acquired and oppressive wealth.

Play over, then comes rest—rest as complete and perfect as the play. Stretched on the grass or before the fire, relaxed and languid, every muscle slack and every nerve quiet, he sinks to slumber profound and absolute. Sometimes a bit of joyous memory steals into his slumbering mind; an ear will cock, a paw will twitch, but for an instant, and he is again at perfect peace.

Then the call will come. Duty summons in the form of some sound inaudible to human ears, some suspicious odor too delicate to disturb a human nostril, and he is up. Back in harness, recreated, rested, ready for any demand upon that marvelous supply of nervous energy. And a neurasthenic generation wonders at it, while Cerberus patiently tries to teach by actual practice the simplest rudiments of health to a stupid and inattentive class of grown-up dunces.

That much vaunted and greatly overestimated thing called intellectual life, which humans use as a convenient excuse for all sorts of self-indulgence, is to Cerberus only the nice adjustment of dog data, knowledge, and experience to the needs of his complex relationships with those about him. These adjustments are delicate and intricate, for Cerberus lives, moves, and has his being, not in a world of understanding fellow-dogs, but with creatures duller than he and filled with every form of prejudice and conceit. Add to this the fact that these same folk represent to him not men and women, but for all practical purposes of immediate recognition and other important dog-matters nothing more nor less than a moving forest of male and female legs. How would you prosper, my proud dog-baiting relative, if your point of view was from eight to fifteen inches above ground, and if your horizon line could be extended beyond a few paltry yards only by a painful lifting of the head or the securing of some vantage point for observation? I fear, my friend, you would cut a much sadder figure than Cerberus at his worst.

And so his days pass. They are full of work and rest and play and, above all, a constant effort to square his dog mind to a man world. He does it pretty well; he does it better, on the whole, than man squares his to a God-made world. At least, his effort seems more sincere, his attitude vastly more dignified and honest.

The day’s work is over. Childish hands are clasped in slumber, maternal cares are soothed in the first sweet sleep of night, and paternal irritabilities are in the process of partial elimination by pipe and book and armchair and open fire.

Cerberus lies with his head across his master’s foot, a convenient arrangement allowing contact to replace sight on the blind side; and the seeing side commands the door. The autumn wind sways bare branches against the tiny house. Faint odors of apples and other products of the little farm seep up from the cellar, where in modest store they flank the winter’s firewood piled in orderly array. The year is dying. Cerberus stirs in his sleep. I lay my hand upon his lean side. I pause to feel the rapid beating of his little heart, scarcely slowed at all, even in sleep. Would that some power could slow it down; it will wear out all too soon—and then!

A door creaks. He rises; no bristling fury, no growling menace, only an orderly and methodical investigation of every corner of the room and hall. Then a dignified return and sleep resumed. A subtle compliment to his master’s competence, a mere gesture of coöperation with a trusted superior—this is one of those delicate adjustments of dog life to a man-made world. Of these Cerberus is a past master.

He sleeps. His “trusted superior” glances at the title of the book he reads and lays it on the table. No need to read now, when Cerberus teaches. The book is a scholarly treatise on _The Mastery of Nerves_.

BLESSED BE THE PIG

My neighbor has many broad acres upon which he pays the taxes and over which I ride and walk—an admirable arrangement. He likes to pay taxes and I like to ride where the footing is soft and the paths are shaded. This is only one of the many advantages which I possess in having so amiable and excellent a man for a neighbor.

To be sure, his orbit is a bit more extended than mine, and we meet but seldom. He nevertheless adds enormously to my pleasure, for his manner of life is ornamental and leisured. He does things suavely and without hurry. His surroundings suit him admirably, and when he takes tea in the garden, dressed in spotless riding-togs, he is every inch the picture he thinks he is.

My somewhat covert admiration of his sartorial perfection has been a bit marred, however, by a suspicion that his life was not one of full-flavored and perfect rusticity. It seemed too perfect in detail, just a bit studied. A tumble-down stone wall separates my entire estate from one corner of his domain. It is not a well-preserved or suburban looking wall. I know it is my duty to repair it. I mean to sometime. Over this wall on rare occasions we hold conversation, and it was while thus engaged that I unwittingly discovered his secret. I had said something about pigs and, not wishing to appear superior or improperly proud of my worldly possessions, I inquired as to how his pigs “did”—pigs are one of the few animals who “do.” To my surprise, he told me that he did not keep pigs, not even a pig; in fact, he would not tolerate one on his place. Then I knew his secret, I realized the flaw in his pretentious rusticity.

I turned and walked sadly away. There are times when people reveal themselves so shamelessly and in such bland innocence of the awful revelations they make that the kindest thing you can do is to leave them in ignorance of their guilt.

Then a disquieting thought came to me: if Midas dislikes pigs so much, perhaps he dislikes mine, and wishes them removed. Perhaps he meant to go on and make the suggestion. It was well that I left him. I hastened my step lest he call me back.

Presently I found myself in earnest contemplation of the creatures held in so low esteem by my neighbor. I looked tenderly at them. I recognized the mood: it was the familiar one that is experienced when you hold in your hand a most unflattering report from your eldest’s preceptor, and the tiny culprit stands before you waiting the utterance of reprimand or sentence. This mood, by some strange twist in my mind, always prompts immoderate and boisterous laughter, which must be restrained in the family circle; but to-day I was safely out of hearing. My neighbor was taking tea by now in an ornate and inaccessible garden, and I found myself shaken with Homeric laughter as I leaned over the low wall and shared my merriment with two most astonished pigs.

Of course Midas would not keep a pig! I might have known it. Midas chops trees in a silk shirt. That in itself is not inherently base or sordid, but he grunts (it is not a pretty word, but he does) when his axe strikes the tree or log he is man-handling in an utterly inaccurate imitation of a real chopper with a real axe striking real blows. He fails to synchronize properly and betrays the amateur. I have even heard him describe a pack of hounds as “dogs”! I was not thinking pleasant thoughts of Midas. I did not try to; I knew I was through with him. Our wives might continue to exchange biennial calls, we might even exchange a word or two over the wall, but for all intents and purposes I knew I was through with Midas. How silly I had been—of course Midas would not keep a pig.

And what a pity! By one of those wise provisions of a benign Providence this crowning glory of rusticity is within the reach of the humblest, except those unfortunates who dwell in congested districts where a perverse public opinion has legislated against this highly useful animal. But then, no self-respecting person would live in such a place anyway.

There is no need to enlarge upon the economic value of the pig. The billboards and the press are radiant with tasteful illustrations of the appetizing final state of this succulent animal. It is in other ways and for other reasons that I admire and love him.

He is the one animal with which man can ever hope to be on intimate terms, who is an incorrigible wag. He is the humorist of the farm. It seems strange that it should be so. Bred for countless generations for nothing but culinary purposes, daily approaching an inevitably tragic end, he has preserved inviolate the comic tradition. When opportunity presents, my friend, look attentively at those little, glittering eyes and you will see a waggish twinkle that will convince you that you are in the presence of a humorist.

To get the very best out of your ownership of a pig, thought should be given to his habitat. An enclosure is necessary. Now then; have the enclosure of such a height that your elbows rest comfortably upon the top, arrange a soft and agreeable footing on the windward side of the enclosure, and all will be well. Your relation with a pig is not an intimate one; he is not to be handled except in early infancy; and you will find that merely to contemplate him, as you stand in a comfortable and relaxed attitude with some support to the body, will yield a rich reward.

They should be secured young. There is in a very young pig an innocent joyousness that will amuse you in the early stages of your acquaintance and will give you food for thought as your intimacy grows. And then the pleasure of seeing them grow! If you have a low and commercial type of mind you can calculate daily your profit, even after deducting the interest on your modest initial investment. The upkeep is not a heavy item. One of the most charming things about a pig is his heartfelt gratitude for the delicacies which a wasteful and ignorant generation regard as inappropriate for human consumption; and to beneficent use he puts them, returning literally an hundredfold.

But it is not these sordid considerations that lead me to love a pig. It is the intellectual sympathy existing between us that endears him to me.

In the first place; a pig, more than any of your other animal friends, looks like many people you know. The moment you see a new pig you have at once a dozen names in mind, every one of them fitting perfectly. I will admit that I have encountered a curious prejudice on the part of some people against having a pig named after them. This can be remedied in a simple and most effective manner. In my case, I have a pig that irresistibly reminded me of a near relative, a man of pronounced opinions. That settled his name. On formal occasions and for reference in certain quarters I use a coldly classic name with no special significance; but at the twilight hour, when that pig and I hold communion, I address him by his lawful given name.

I have had pigs who possessed a variety of aliases. In such a case, as I talk pleasantly with one or the other, I go through the list until I use the one name I know to be his by every right of pigship. An ear pricks up, a roguish eye twinkles a bit more brightly, and after a delicately executed _pas seul_ around the enclosure, he is back once more, demure and attentive.

And how attentive he is! He stands with ears erect, fore feet firmly planted in the empty trough, his little eyes raised to mine, and his nostrils twitching with interest and anticipation. In that posture he is the living image of a lady I know, as she leans over her teacup to catch the last syllable of innuendo in the last titbit of scandal that is making its rapid circuit of our little town. So I address my remarks to Mrs. Jones, and relate to her incidents in the lives of mutual friends no less apocryphal than those so much enjoyed by my neighbors. And Mrs. Jones’ eyes twinkle, and her nose twitches, and her tail curls tighter and tighter in sheer delight, until I burst into laughter with a guilty fear that I may have been overheard—may have so set in motion a new series of stories that would inevitably bring disaster to some of our most respected townsfolk.

There is a direct simplicity about a pig. He knows no affectations. He has but two ends in view: one is to wax fat,—and how splendidly he does it,—the other, to amuse with a subtle, ironic humor. He lives a curiously circumscribed life in utter and absolute contentment. He has none of that nervous intellectual intensity that is so wearing to live with. He has no illusions; he indulges in no moods or fancies; but what a wonderful companion he is—the very flower of discretion! Your most intimate confidences are safe with him.

The older he grows, the more closely in his stately prime does he resemble the president of our local bank until, at times of financial stringency, I can hardly bring myself to visit him. I know if he could speak he would say something about an impending overdraft. He knows it too, and as he waddles over toward me he puffs and grunts a bit in covert imitation of the great man whom he knows I fear. I am quick to act on his suggestion. It suits my mood. There are plans afoot which will soon necessitate a visit to that temple of finance. It will be well to be letter-perfect in my part, though I know from experience that my part in the dialogue will be unimportant, once it gets under way.

The visit starts with an effusive welcome, as Moneybags extends a moist and yielding hand. A wan smile flits for a moment across his impassive countenance, and the judicial manner is once more assumed. How are things with me? Well, he hopes. But at times like these it is difficult to tell—very difficult. A faint note of pessimism already begins to creep into the monologue. General business conditions are unsatisfactory; there has been overproduction in certain industrial lines; the situation in the Near East is not what he would like to have it. Dark hints of revolution and tottering governments, of an uncomfortable feeling in Wall Street, lead naturally to a detailed description of the appalling condition of the farmer (here I begin to be sympathetic), due to the presence of either too much or too little gold in the country, and I am newly impressed by the unfortunate circumstance that I either am or am not a citizen of a debtor nation. I do not quite know which it is, but it is dreadful, whatever it is, and I find myself suddenly filled with compunction that I should have come to this noble, suffering person with my paltry needs. I begin to see dimly that I am only adding a feather’s weight to the staggering load that this self-forgetful Atlas is already carrying, as single-handed he supports the financial fabric of the world.

Moneybags pauses, a chubby hand plays nervously with a delicate ivory paper-cutter. He glances apprehensively at the door; his voice becomes a husky whisper as he alludes to general conditions of unrest among the working classes, their utter lack of appreciation of what is being done for them, and the certainty that things will be worse before they are better. Long ago my little errand has been forgotten in a flood of sympathy for a man so harried by world problems.

At this point Moneybags observes a delicate morsel in a far corner of the trough and he moves away to investigate. It proves attractive, and he forgets me in his efforts to secure it. It is well, for at that moment we are joined by the companion of his sequestered life. It is Mrs. Murphy, the excellent woman who does the cleaning and other important matters in the little house yonder.

She comes abruptly; her manner has none of the poise and dignity which have always endeared her companion to me. She is vocal, she is positive, she knows what she wants and goes after it with commendable directness. I fear she is, like myself, hopelessly middle-class. But I like her. It is a relief to converse again with a pig who talks my language and with whom I have much in common. For Mrs. Murphy and I have many mutual interests—taxes, interest, mortgages, plumbers’ bills, insurance premiums, indigent relatives, and growing children.

The talk turns to other channels. Things are not well with Mrs. Murphy; her rent has been raised on account of conditions in the Near East, there has been illness, food is very dear. I try to explain to her that this is due entirely to unsettled conditions in Russia, but without great success.

Her sister’s children—oh yes, they are with her. Yes, six of them. The two eldest are in an “institooshun.” Thomas will soon be at work, she hopes. Her lord and master is just at present unemployed, but as soon as he comes out of the hospital he hopes to get half-time.

Mrs. Murphy glides easily from the concrete to the abstract. It is the rich who are to blame. They are growing richer, and the poor poorer. She looks scornfully at the towers of the palace beyond the stone wall. I hasten to tell her that we are not on terms now, that I too am out of sympathy with Midas. She seems appeased.

I try to remember all the dreadful things Moneybags told me. It is no use. Moneybags was right. The working classes do not, will not understand; but I have a suspicion that Mrs. Murphy and I do not quite understand Midas and Moneybags.

A joyous bark is heard. Shrill voices pierce the air. School is over and life really begins. I leave this oddly assorted pair to work out their problems, grateful for an hour of perfect peace in the presence of perfect understanding.

* * * * *

Finally, a pig is the only animal friend with whom I am able to part at an appropriate time without bitter grief and self-reproaches. It is not that I am not sincerely attached to him by the subtlest ties of kinship, but there seems to be only one logical finale of our life together. If the parting is delayed too long, the relationship loses something of its old-time zest, the flower is fading, and dull and apathetic habit replaces the first sweet fervor of fellowship. It is well to let the parting come in proper season without vain regrets. And even after the parting there is opportunity for affectionate remembrance. Your breakfast takes on a new and interesting significance. As the delicate morsel rests before you, you inhale its subtle aroma, you see the slender stripes of delicate color, and you wonder—you wonder—

The pig has a secure niche in the Temple of Letters. The gentle Elia has enshrined him for all time. But by a curious chance even Elia emphasized the gastronomic aspect of his fame without reference to his waggish quality. It is well that the benign Dr. Dolittle has placed before us his true picture in Gub-Gub, beloved of children.

And now, my friend, the fever of the day is over. The twilight hour has come with its suggestion of peace and contemplation. Come with me and we will rest awhile. Let me introduce you to a friend of mine, a person of importance in local financial and social circles. He will amuse you.

And when you reach that time in your life when you begin to suffer from the chronic irritability of the man over fifty, when you begin to get a bit queer, and quarrel with your neighbor simply because he wears expensive and becoming raiment, when you need a solace and an unfailing source of understanding fellowship, when you begin to feel the need of occasional soul-communings with Nature’s subtlest humorist and most perfect clown, apply to me; I will sell you a pig. And, having dined at your table, I know he will “do” well.

BLESSED BE THE HEN

There dawns a day when the big rock to the south of the stable looms black against the shrinking snowdrifts. A crumbling Gibraltar stands beneath the apple trees, its turrets wasted by the sun, its massive walls fast melting to decay. Gone is its grandeur; gone are its brave defenders; no sign of them remains save one scarlet gauntlet, lost in repelling the last desperate sally of a departed foe, now the sodden and solitary reminder of an epic winter.

A strange new life is stirring within the little house. Steps are quicker, voices gayer; new tasks come with every hour. A joyous restlessness sets life a-tingle; windows open, and mops are shaken. Curious caps appear over familiar female faces. All is bustle, eagerness, and mirth.

Outside, great rich black spots of earth appear. The first green things look out from garden tangles, and the sun pours its prodigal warmth into every dark and frozen corner.

There dawns a day set by no calendar, decreed by no lawgiver, when the mystic ritual of spring must be observed. Long since have fireside tasks and recreations been a mockery. Long since a strange and willful discontent has set us all on edge. For many days the leaping blood in little bodies had been ringing out its imperious command; and yet it was not time. Then at last we know the time has come.

With perfect understanding we set forth. Down through the land new-ploughed last fall, by the willows with their magic mist of spring, through the pine woods where snowbanks still lie purple in the hollows about the giant trunks, on to the river bank.

There it lies before us at full flood, lazily rafting its harvest of broken ice to the sea not far away. Where the sun lies warm the bank is open, and the black water curls at our feet with little intimate chuckles of delight.

We follow the well-known path. No words are needed, no shouted directions or commands, until in a bend of the stream we reach our goal. Sharp knives whip out. The tender branches are bent gently down, and with a clear, firm cut the sprays fall at our feet. Not many—just enough to place with reverent hands in a certain place in a certain room. Our little store is divided into three exactly equal parts, and each bearing his share, we turn toward home. Now tongues are loosed and once more the litany of spring is chanted. Home in the half light of the afternoon, back to lights and warmth, but it is not the same. We feel a presence. The dark, outside, is friendly; the warm wind no longer sobs in the chimney top; the lights lie soft on the sleek gray tufts of the willow branches in the big green vase.

We all know what the morrow will bring forth, but we do not like to talk about it. We hint at something of rare significance, but our talk just skirts the edges of direct allusion. It must be done as always done before: no variation, no vulgar interpolations or changes, no deviation from accepted and time-honored tradition. All is in readiness and all will be well.

The morning dawns. There is no haste, all is decency and order. But when the sun is warm, once more with high intent we seek the open. Down the little avenue, past the pear trees to the stable, past the paddock, through a tiny gate to a low, long building near a shabby wall.

The doors are closed, the windows screened with cotton cloth. We pause to listen and hear busy scratching and muffled talk. Down the long yard, enclosed by wire netting, to the gate—a bit awry and uncertain on its hinges, but bravely has it withstood the wintry winds. We fumble at the wooden button that holds it fast. The gate opens and we stand aside.

A moment’s tense silence while the world waits. Then the Duke of Wellington appears, resplendent in his spring apparel. With shrewd, inquiring eyes he cocks his head, and his great red wattles shake with eagerness. A step nearer, and then he speaks. A brief word of command, and out from crowded winter quarters come the ladies of his household. With the Field Marshal in the van they reach the gate. Another moment of inquiry and then, with feet high lifted and yellow toes curled close, they take the first step of the year in the great outdoors. We count them as they pass. We exchange knowing glances. All present or accounted for, save one. We know which one, and so we wait. It is but a moment when, with shrill cries of alarm and many aimless tackings, the delinquent appears. Yes, it’s Mrs. Cuttle, always anxious, always late, always perturbed and scolding violently. True to form she begins the season. Mrs. Cuttle has long since outlived her productive years, but she is retained as a moral lesson, and it is not lost: to “cuttle” is a cardinal sin. May her anxious, vociferous life be spared for years to come, sobeit she will only continue to impress on all the vacuity of “cuttling.”

The Field Marshal now has his forces deployed as skirmishers, and like the prudent commander that he is, takes his place well in the rear, where with all-pervading eye he watches the rank and file. They are locating and examining each bit of bare ground, Mrs. Cuttle keeping her place in line with great difficulty and greater uncertainty. We listen for the food song. There are those who pretend that a hen possesses no vocabulary. Dull the ears that cannot hear her endless variations of a simple theme. The food song, a long succession of monosyllabic interrogatives, is one of her most endearing performances. Now it comes to us, and we know the quest is rewarded. We gather closer and watch the Field Marshal. The moment will be here soon. Will the ceremony be complete? Will it close with the usual crashing crescendo that we love?

He steps proudly along; he pauses, looks about, the sun gleaming on the noble iris of his neck. He steps to an upturned clod of earth and balances delicately on it. Slowly his wings begin to move. He is erect, noble, effulgent. His wings flap wildly, he throws back his head, and with comb and wattles blazing in apoplectic ecstasy, he sounds the clarion call. It rings in our ears, it tingles in our blood. It is more than the fitting climax of a perfect drama; it is the call to action. Tasks await us, enthralling undertakings, and we must not delay. But delay we do, for a moment to feel the glowing warmth of the heightening sun, to let the sweet southwest wind blow in our faces, to smell the cool, wet odor of the awakening soil.

We listen in the stillness for a voice. Eager eyes turn toward the willows, parted lips and straining ears wait for the message, and it comes. The little brook beyond the willows now is free and he is talking to us!

But now to work. First the tools must be collected from strange hiding-places, boards and nails, pails and brushes, all the jovial paraphernalia of building and repairing. The deserted henhouse is cleaned in every corner: nests and roosts, floor and ceiling. What glorious dust, what proud disdain of clothes and hands, what prodigies of skill and strength mark the full sweep of our enterprise! New litter on the floor, new hay in the nests, windows washed, and screens removed. By night the returning wanderers find all in order.

But this has been only one day; we know more glorious ones will follow. As the days go by we work more slowly, for we must not spend these golden hours too freely.

Then all is ready. There must be a dry, warm day with just a breath of wind. Pails are brought and we mix the magic brew: pure white lime, bubbling and steaming. The cauldrons simmer; we stir and mumble strange enchantments, old magic words of bygone ages; we croon strange songs, and stir, and stir. It is finished—whiter than anything imagined, smooth as velvet; there is nothing like it.

Inside we go. We put it on in lavish manner. It drops; it spots; it spatters; and it will burn if you are unwary. We emerge exultant. For once we have had enough of something, and how we have reveled in it! A general appraisal of our clothes is made, and bad as they are, we are sure they are not so bad as they were last year.

Happy in the completion of this undertaking, we rest awhile. For days we glory in the matchless product of our skill, but we know this leisure must not last. That is the great fact at the bottom of man’s devotion to the hen. She is an insistent creature and goads you on to activity. She demands an industry equal to her own. There are only brief, infrequent periods of contemplative pleasure in your association with a hen. No hours of easy talk, no placid silences, no moments of tender abstraction. A hen does not sentimentalize, she acts, and she insists that your relationship be that of a working partner; but how richly she rewards the conscientious performance of your duty to her!

Already there are signs in the Field Marshal’s household that new duties will soon confront us. Some of the ladies are becoming querulous. With ruffled feathers, they scold the hours away. They even lose their appetites and refuse to go outdoors. They are watched, and many consultations held. Some evening the great news comes. Already a place has been prepared, and so at dusk with lighted lantern three conspirators creep abroad. Thirteen chosen eggs are borne to a secluded retreat, and there we find her, spread to an incredible breadth, with head drawn in, beady eyes snapping, and a vicious beak ready to strike if you make an unguarded motion. The lantern is held aloft and one by one the eggs are laid before her. With gentle pressure she takes them and stows them away in the recesses of the feathers. Food and water are placed near, and we tiptoe away, awed by this mystery of life.

Tiny new abodes must be prepared, and long hours are spent sitting in the sun, mending, painting, renewing homes for the expected offspring. What hours they are! The talk is good: it ranges through the heights and depths of life, its magic and its mystery. Serious discussion of practical details of construction follows close on the heels of myth and fable. So the twenty-one days pass. The last are feverish. It is hard not to interfere, we feel that we could do so much to help, but bitter experience has taught us that the stupidest hen, even Mrs. Cuttle, knows more about the matter in hand than we do. We are humbled.

On the twenty-first day at twilight we again seek her out. There she is, immovable, spread deeper and wider than ever. Worn with her long vigil, pale and wan, she resolutely waits. Presently there is the faintest shadow of a movement under the protecting feathers. The watchers exchange excited whispers; then slowly, one after the other, we lean down and listen close to the maternal breast. A feeble sound is heard, and eyes are wide with wonder.

Then follow days of unremitting toil, not unmixed with anxiety and cruel disappointments. Tragedies come which spoil a day for us, but it is part of the game, part of the great game we are trying to learn to play with poise and patience.

* * * * *

I sit on the paddock fence and smoke my pipe. I watch the sun sink low behind the woodland to the west. Up from the ploughed land comes the Field Marshal with his host. When I first see him he has them in extended order; as he comes to more difficult terrain, he skillfully manœuvres them into a column of fours and passes me in perfect array. I drop to my feet and come to a rigid salute. He passes the reviewing stand with glittering eye and haughty step. I notice that on the return into familiar country he is at the head of the column. And what a picture he makes! Here is a bird, methinks, who never has had and never will have an “inferiority complex.” And, after all, he is acting his little part well. What more can man or bird do? Play your part in the drama—and what a drama it is!

Lights glimmer in the little house. I must go. I thrust my pipe deep into my pocket without knocking the heel out—a habit I practise, but deplore; it has grown on me of late years. I walk toward the house. At the lilacs by the hedge I stop.

The soft air is full of myriads of little voices; small rustling things disturb the grass; the soft sod yields beneath my step, and pungent odors float down the wind. Life, imperious life is singing in the night its message of growth. Grow and multiply, grow, grow for to-morrow the harvest. And the very stars in the heavens swing low to listen.

A shrill cry of distress reaches my dreaming ears. I start, but I know from whence it comes. It is Mrs. Cuttle, late as usual, blundering homeward in the dark.

BLESSED BE THE COW

I lay at full length on a shaded piazza and pretended to read my excellent farm paper. The midsummer heat made this form of agriculture the only agreeable one.

“What,” asked my eldest, “is a bovine ruminant in three letters?”

“A bovine ruminant,” I responded, “is what the editor of this journal calls a cow. The young gentlemen who edit a certain literary weekly with which I was once familiar would call a cow a bovine ruminant. That is why I no longer take in the literary weekly and continue to read the farm journal.”

“Thanks,” she said, “It fits nicely.”

“You are fortunate to find anything that fits in this crazy world,” I answered, and leaped to my feet.

I was in bad humor. Things were at sixes and sevens, and besides, I had lost my pipe. This was not an unusual event, in fact, it is lost about half the time. But for this happy circumstance I know I should smoke too much.

I have an efficient friend, whose wife keeps her kitchen spoons arranged on revolving wooden cones, who suggested once that a simple solution of my difficulty would be to have two pipes. That is exactly what an efficient man would suggest, never stopping to consider the inconvenience of having to hunt for two lost pipes. One is bad enough.

I slouched into the garden and sat down on a bench. It had been exposed to the sun for some hours and was hot. I succeeded, however, in locating my pipe in an entirely improper and unorthodox pocket. I was rather sorry I found it, for my tobacco was moist and would not burn properly.

It soon became obvious that I could not remain where I was. I rose and started on an aimless round of my small estate. Never had it looked worse; never was there plainer evidence of a hundred sins of omission and commission. I bit my pipestem savagely as I passed the lilacs. Cerberus lay in a cool hollow in the shade. He glanced up at me and decided to remain where he was. That hurt me, but I would not call him, and I went on alone. The paddock was empty. That was good—no place for a horse in the boiling sun. I looked into the stable. Everything was wrong, too many stall windows closed; but I won’t open them. On through the gate—open, of course, in the face of definite orders to keep it closed. I won’t close it, but I will see about that later. I looked into the henhouse; nothing but drooping birds in utter dejection, save Mrs. Cuttle, who was rolling in drunken ecstasy in a dust hole in the yard.

I decided it was cooler in the house. Perhaps if I laid some tobacco on a newspaper in the sun for a time things would be better. I determined to try it.

As I approached I heard voices. There were white-clad figures in the garden—the dresses looked thin and cool. I caught the sound of laughter, gentle and well-bred, and the clink of ice in glass. For one moment I stood irresolute, and then I fled. Down past the strawberries I hurried. I crouched behind the rose trellis, and made the open. I did not want to run,—I might be observed,—so I assumed an air of importance and walked as rapidly as possible over the rough ground. I climbed the stone wall; a loose stone fell and scraped my ankle. I said something and hurried on. A great elm tree shades the corner of this pasture; I sank to the ground in sheer exhaustion beneath its extended branches. Now I was safe.

I took off my coat and tried to put it between my back and the tree. What a lot of nonsense, I thought, is talked about Mother Nature. I never lay on the ground comfortably in my life; something always pricks or tickles or crawls, and it is hard. Now a low chair in a shaded garden with a cool drink in a tall glass, that might—but no, I would rather lie here until numb with stiffness than go back now.

Why people you don’t care about insist on breaking into the privacy of people they don’t care about is a mystery to me. This whole fabric of social life is a tissue of pretense, an empty trading in social coin: a dinner for a dinner, a luncheon for a luncheon, a call for a call, with a sweeping clearance-sale once a year in the form of a crowded miscellaneous affair called a tea.

Those people there in the garden. I do not know who they are, but I can guess. I am well out of it; I am sure I am not interested in the domestic details of their lives, and they are all talking at once about their servants or their children. Unpleasant as my present situation is, I am quite content to stay here until they go and life returns to the pleasant channels of normal privacy.

I tried sitting up straight; I even tried to cross my legs, tailor-fashion—this proved an anatomical impossibility. I remembered the tobacco, rose, and laid some out on a stone near at hand. As I did so I heard the swish of grass, and the family cow moved placidly into the area of shade. With delicate deliberation she lay down, and we found ourselves face to face. If she was surprised she did not betray it. She looked at me with great liquid eyes as tranquil as a forest pool. I noticed her nose. How flat and big and wet and cool it looked! I decided she was a good-looking cow. I hope she is as good as she looks, for she constitutes the entire herd.

I have a friend, a most engaging person, who combines profound knowledge of a dozen sciences with an encyclopædic erudition in regard to cows. He asked me once if she was a grade cow. I said I did not know, but she had a curious metal tag in one ear. He explained the significance of the tag, and smiled. I like his smile—he has wonderful teeth—poor fellow, he does not smoke enough to ruin them.

There being nothing else to look at, I looked at Dolly. She was chewing her cud. The slow rhythmic precision of her technique fascinated me. I particularly admired the sideways movement of the lower jaw. She stopped; a gentle genuflection of the neck was noticeable; and she resumed. I had never had such a chance to observe a cow before and I made the most of it. I felt that I was seeing for the first time the noble dignity of her head, her broad fine brow, and above all the eyes, serene and beautiful.

She was tormented by flies, but she ignored them except for a lazy swish of her tail. A distant train whistled; a car screeched on the highway; she did not move, but chewed serenely on.

I found it growing cooler; the tobacco experiment was a success. I discovered an agreeable hollow in the ground and fitted myself comfortably into it.

I recalled those far-off bitter days when I did not own a cow, when her only substitute was the rattle of bottles in an alley at some grim hour before dawn. What fiendish delight the purveyor of those bottles took in banging area gates! I have never known any early-morning milkmen intimately, but I have often wondered what their private lives might be. I suppose they enjoy the rights of citizenship—they may have homes—I wonder.

Then I looked at Dolly’s eyes again. I could not resist them. I recalled the age-old story of the maiden changed to a heifer by a jealous god. I noticed for the first time a look of imprisoned sadness in her eyes. There was a gadfly in that story too, I remembered, and it drove her into the sea. Unlike mortals, Dolly has evidently developed an immunity to gadflies.

What wonderful old stories those are! How young the world was, and how it has changed! All but Dolly; she is as she was, grazing on the slopes of Olympus. It is man who has hurried and worried himself from change to change until he can no longer see the beauty of the simple, lovely, unchanged thing.

How cool the breeze, how sweet the odor of the grass! The restless spring has passed. The year has grown; and now the full accomplishment of summer meets the eye. The season pauses, and for a few matchless weeks we see no change. Nature rests; her work is well-nigh done, and you are free to see it all if you will only look.

Dolly rose to her feet and turned slowly toward the bars. No need to clang the hour in jangling notes from tawdry towers; Dolly has met the tryst at the meadow gate ever since Pan piped the shepherd’s flocks to madness. I rose too, and we went together to the gate. I let down the bars and we stepped through. She stopped to crop a tuft of grass. I slid my arm over her neck, and through the meadow where I fled in haste we walked side by side with measured tread toward the sweet-smelling barn.

The demands of my small estate are modest, but I employ the services of one associate and fellow worker. He must be a man of varied talents and tireless industry and above all, for my entire satisfaction, he must be gifted with a sense of values, a feeling for the fitness of things. This is hard to find.

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Bucolic BeatitudesChapter I: Part 1

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