CHAPTER XII
{Along the highway: p89.jpg}
July 17th.
Thornycroft Farm seems to be the musical centre of the universe.
When I wake very early in the morning I lie in a drowsy sort of dream,trying to disentangle, one from the other, the various bird notes,trills, coos, croons, chirps, chirrups, and warbles. Suddenly therefalls on the air a delicious, liquid, finished song; so pure, so mellow,so joyous, that I go to the window and look out at the morning world,half awakened, like myself.
There is I know not what charm in a window that does not push up, butopens its lattices out into the greenness. And mine is like a littlejewelled door, for the sun is shining from behind the chimneys andlighting the tiny diamond panes with amber flashes.
A faint delicate haze lies over the meadow, and rising out of it, andsoaring toward the blue is the lark, flinging out that matchless matinsong, so rich, so thrilling, so lavish! As the blithe melody fades away,I hear the plaintive ballad-fragments of the robin on a curtsying branchnear my window; and there is always the liquid pipe of the thrush, whomust quaff a fairy goblet of dew between his songs, I should think, sofresh and eternally young is his note.
There is another beautiful song that I follow whenever I hear it,straining my eyes to the treetops, yet never finding a bird that I canidentify as the singer. Can it be the--
"Ousel-cock so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill"?
He is called the poet-laureate of the primrose time, but I don't knowwhether he sings in midsummer, and I have not seen him hereabouts. Imust write and ask my dear Man of the North. The Man of the North, Isometimes think, had a Fairy Grandmother who was a robin; and perhaps shemade a nest of fresh moss and put him in the green wood when he was a weebairnie, so that he waxed wise in bird-lore without knowing it. At allevents, describe to him the cock of a head, the glance of an eye, the tip-up of a tail, or the sheen of a feather, and he will name you the bird.Near-sighted he is, too, the Man of the North, but that is only forpeople.
The Square Baby and I have a new game.
I bought a doll's table and china tea-set in Buffington. We put it underan apple-tree in the side garden, where the scarlet lightning grows sotall and the Madonna lilies stand so white against the flamingbackground. We built a little fence around it, and every afternoon attea-time we sprinkle seeds and crumbs in the dishes, water in the tinycups, drop a cherry in each of the fruit-plates, and have a _thechantant_ for the birdies. We sometimes invite an "invaleed" duckling,or one of the baby rabbits, or the peacock, in which case the cardsread:--
_Thornycroft Farm_. The pleasure of your company is requested at a _The Chantant_ Under the Apple Tree. Music at five.
It is a charming game, as I say, but I'd far rather play it with the Manof the North; he is so much younger than the Square Baby, and so muchmore responsive, too.
{The scent of the hay: p92.jpg}
Thornycroft Farm is a sweet place, too, of odours as well as sounds. Thescent of the hay is for ever in the nostrils, the hedges are thick withwild honeysuckle, so deliciously fragrant, the last of the June roses arelingering to do their share, and blackberry blossoms and ripening fruitas well.
I have never known a place in which it is so easy to be good. I have notsaid a word, nor scarcely harboured a thought, that was not lovely andvirtuous since I entered these gates, and yet there are those who thinkme fantastic, difficult, hard to please, unreasonable!
{The last of June: p93.jpg}
I believe the saints must have lived in the country mostly (I am certainthey never tried Hydropathic hotels), and why anybody with a black heartand natural love of wickedness should not simply buy a poultry farm andbecome an angel, I cannot understand.
{A place in which it is so easy to be good: p94.jpg}
Living with animals is really a very improving and wholesome kind oflife, to the person who will allow himself to be influenced by theirsensible and high-minded ideals. When you come to think about it, man isreally the only animal that ever makes a fool of himself; the others arehighly civilised, and never make mistakes. I am going to mention thiswhen I write to somebody, sometime; I mean if I ever do. To be sure, ourhuman life is much more complicated than theirs, and I believe when theother animals notice our errors of judgment they make allowances. Thebee is as busy as a bee, and the beaver works like a beaver, but theretheir responsibility ends. The bee doesn't have to go about seeing thatother bees are not crowded into unsanitary tenements or victimised by thesweating system. When the beaver's day of toil is over he doesn't haveto discuss the sphere, the rights, or the voting privileges ofbeaveresses; all he has to do is to work like a beaver, and that iscomparatively simple.