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Once a Week

<h2>OTHER PEOPLE'S HOUSES</h2> <hr /> <h3>THE PARTING GUEST</h3> When nice people ask me to their houses for the week-end, I reply that I shall be delighted to come, but that pressure of work will prevent my staying beyond Tuesday. Sometimes, in spite of this, they try to kick me out on the Monday; and if I find that they are serious about it I may possibly consent to go by an evening train. In any case, it always seems to me a pity to have to leave a house just as you are beginning to know your way to the bathroom. "Is the 9.25 too early for you?" said Charles on Sunday night à propos of nothing that I had said. "Not if it's in the evening," I answered. "It's in the morning." "Then it's much too early. I never travel before breakfast. But why do you ask?" "Well, I've got to ride over to Newtown to-morrow——" "To-morrow?" I said in surprise. "Aren't we talking about Tuesday?" It appeared that we weren't. It also came out that Charles and his wife, not anticipating the pleasure of my company beyond Monday, had arranged to ride over the downs to Newtown to inspect a horse. They would not be back until the evening. "But that's all right, Charles," I said. "If you have a spare horse, a steady one which doesn't wobble when it canters, I will ride with you." "There's only the old pony," said Charles, "and he will be wanted to drive you to the station." "Not until Tuesday," I pointed out. Charles ignored this remark altogether. "You couldn't ride Joseph, anyway," he said. "Then I might run beside you, holding on to your stirrup. My ancestors always went into battle like that. We are still good runners." Charles turned over some more pages of his timetable. "There is a 10.41," he announced. "Just when I shall be getting to like you," I sighed. "Molly and I have to be off by ten. If you caught the 10.41, you would want to leave here by a quarter past." "I shouldn't want to leave," I said reproachfully; "I should go with the greatest regret." "The 9.25, of course, gets you up to town much earlier." "Some such idea, no doubt, would account for its starting before the 10.41. What have you at about 4.30?" "If you don't mind changing at Plimton, there's a 10.5——" I got up and lit my candle. "Let's wait till to-morrow and see what the weather's like," I said sleepily. "I am not a proud man, but after what you've said, and if it's at all wet, I may actually be glad to catch an early train." And I marched upstairs to bed. However, a wonderful blue sky next morning made any talk of London utterly offensive. My host and hostess had finished breakfast by the time I got down, and I was just beginning my own when the sound of the horses on the gravel brought me out. "I'm sorry we've got to dash off like this," said Mrs. Charles, smiling at me from the back of Pompey. "Don't you be in any hurry to go. There are plenty of trains." "Thank you. It would be a shame to leave the country on a morning like this, wouldn't it? I shall take a stroll over the hills before lunch, and sit about in the garden in the afternoon. There's a train at five, I think." "We shan't be back by then, I'm afraid, so this will be good-bye." I made my farewells, and Pompey, who was rather fresh, went off sideways down the drive. This left me alone with Charles. "Good-bye, Charles," I said, patting him with one hand and his horse with the other. "Don't you bother about me. I shall be quite happy by myself." He looked at me with a curious smile and was apparently about to say something, when Cæsar suddenly caught sight of my stockings. These, though in reality perfectly tasteful, might well come as a surprise to a young horse, and Cæsar bolted down the drive to tell Pompey about it. I waved to them all from the distance and returned to my breakfast. After breakfast I lit a pipe and strolled outside. As I stood at the door drinking in the beauty of the morning I was the victim of a curious illusion. It seemed to me that outside the front door was the pony-cart—Joseph in the shafts, the gardener's boy holding the reins, and by the side of the boy my bag! "We'll only just have time, sir," said the boy. "But—but I'm going by the five train," I stammered. "Well, sir, I shall be over at Newtown this afternoon—with the cart." I did not like to ask him why, but I thought I knew. It was, I told myself, to fetch back the horse which Charles was going over to inspect, the horse to which I had to give up my room that night. "Very well," I said. "Take the bag now and leave it in the cloak-room. I'll walk in later." What the etiquette was when your host gave you a hint by sending your bag to the station and going away himself, I did not know. But however many bags he packed and however many horses he inspected, I was not to be moved till the five o'clock train. Half an hour after my bag was gone I made a discovery. It was that, when I started walking to the five o'clock train, I should have to start in pumps.... <hr class="min" /> "My dear Charles," I wrote that night, "it was delightful to see you this week-end, and I only wish I could have stayed with you longer, but, as you know, I had to dash up to town by the five train to inspect a mule. I am sorry to say that a slight accident happened just before I left you. In the general way, when I catch an afternoon train, I like to pack my bag overnight, but on this occasion I did not begin until nine in the morning. This only left me eight hours, and the result was that in my hurry I packed my shoes by mistake, and had to borrow a pair of yours in which to walk to the station. I will bring them down with me next time I come." I may say that they are unusually good shoes, and if Charles doesn't want me he must at least want them. So I am expecting another invitation by every post. When it arrives I shall reply that I shall be delighted to come, but that, alas! pressure of work will prevent my staying beyond Tuesday. <hr /> <h3>THE LANDSCAPE GARDENER</h3> Really I know nothing about flowers. By a bit of luck, James, my gardener, whom I pay half a crown a week for combing the beds, knows nothing about them either; so my ignorance remains undiscovered. But in other people's gardens I have to make something of an effort to keep up appearances. Without flattering myself I may say that I have acquired a certain manner; I give the impression of the garden lover, or the man with shares in a seed company, or—or something. For instance, at Creek Cottage, Mrs. Atherley will say to me, "That's an Amphilobertus Gemini," pointing to something which I hadn't noticed behind a rake. "I am not a bit surprised," I say calmly. "And a Gladiophinium Banksii next to it." "I suspected it," I confess in a hoarse whisper. Towards flowers whose names I know I adopt a different tone. "Aren't you surprised to see daffodils out so early?" says Mrs. Atherley with pride. "There are lots out in London," I mention casually. "In the shops." "So there are grapes," says Miss Atherley. "I was not talking about grapes," I reply stiffly. However, at Creek Cottage just now I can afford to be natural; for it is not gardening which comes under discussion these days, but landscape-gardening, and any one can be an authority on that. The Atherleys, fired by my tales of Sandringham, Chatsworth, Arundel, and other places where I am constantly spending the week-end, are readjusting their two-acre field. In future it will not be called "the garden," but "the grounds." I was privileged to be shown over the grounds on my last visit to Creek Cottage. "Here," said Mrs. Atherley, "we are having a plantation. It will keep the wind off; and we shall often sit here in the early days of summer. That's a weeping ash in the middle. There's another one over there. They'll be lovely, you know." "What's that?" I asked, pointing to a bit of black stick on the left; which, even more than the other trees, gave the impression of having been left there by the gardener while he went for his lunch. "That's a weeping willow." "This is rather a tearful corner of the grounds," apologized Miss Atherley. "We'll show you something brighter directly. Look there—that's the oak in which King Charles lay hid. At least, it will be when it's grown a bit." "Let's go on to the shrubbery," said Mrs. Atherley. "We are having a new grass path from here to the shrubbery. It's going to be called Henry's Walk." Miss Atherley has a small brother called Henry. Also there were eight Kings of England called Henry. Many a time and oft one of those nine Henrys has paced up and down this grassy walk, his head bent, his hands clasped behind his back; while behind his furrowed brow, who shall say what world-schemes were hatching? Is it the thought of Wolsey which makes him frown—or is he wondering where he left his catapult? Ah! who can tell us? Let us leave a veil of mystery over it ... for the sake of the next visitor. "The shrubbery," said Mrs. Atherley proudly, waving her hand at a couple of laurel bushes and a—I've forgotten its name now, but it is one of the few shrubs I really know. "And if you're a gentleman," said Miss Atherley, "and want to get asked here again, you'll always call it the shrubbery." "Really, I don't see what else you could call it," I said, wishing to be asked down again. "The patch." "True," I said. "I mean, Nonsense." I was rather late for breakfast next morning; a pity on such a lovely spring day. "I'm so sorry," I began, "but I was looking at the shrubbery from my window and I quite forgot the time." "Good," said Miss Atherley. "I must thank you for putting me in such a perfect room for it," I went on, warming to my subject. "One can actually see the shrubs—er—shrubbing. The plantation, too, seems a little thicker to me than yesterday." "I expect it is." "In fact, the tennis lawn——" I looked round anxiously. I had a sudden fear that it might be the new deer-park. "It still is the tennis lawn?" I asked. "Yes. Why, what about it?" "I was only going to say the tennis lawn had quite a lot of shadows on it. Oh, there's no doubt that the plantation is really asserting itself." Eleven o'clock found me strolling in the grounds with Miss Atherley. "You know," I said, as we paced Henry's Walk together, "the one thing the plantation wants is for a bird to nest in it. That is the hall-mark of a plantation." "It's mother's birthday to-morrow. Wouldn't it be a lovely surprise for her?" "It would, indeed. Unfortunately this is a matter in which you require the co-operation of a feathered friend." "Couldn't you try to persuade a bird to build a nest in the weeping ash? Just for this once?" "You're asking me a very difficult thing," I said doubtfully. "Anything else I would do cheerfully for you; but to dictate to a bird on such a very domestic affair—— No, I'm afraid I must refuse." "It need only just begin to build one," pleaded Miss Atherley, "because mother's going up to town by your train to-morrow. As soon as she's out of the house the bird can go back anywhere else it likes better." "I will put that to any bird I see to-day," I said, "but I am doubtful." "Oh, well," sighed Miss Atherley, "never mind." <hr class="min" /> "What do you think?" cried Mrs. Atherley as she came in to breakfast next day. "There's a bird been nesting in the plantation!" Miss Atherley looked at me in undisguised admiration. I looked quite surprised—I know I did. "Well, well!" I said. "You must come out afterwards and see the nest and tell me what bird it is. There are three eggs in it. I am afraid I don't know much about these things." "I'm glad," I said thankfully. "I mean, I shall be glad to." We went out eagerly after breakfast. On about the only tree in the plantation with a fork to it a nest balanced precariously. It had in it three pale-blue eggs splotched with light brown. It appeared to be a blackbird's nest with another egg or two to come. "It's been very quick about it," said Miss Atherley. "Of our feathered bipeds," I said, frowning at her, "the blackbird is notoriously the most hasty." "Isn't it lovely?" said Mrs. Atherley. She was still talking about it as she climbed into the trap which was to take us to the station. "One moment," I said, "I've forgotten something." I dashed into the house and out by a side door, and then sprinted for the plantation. I took the nest from the weeping and over-weighted ash and put it carefully back in the hedge by the tennis-lawn. Then I returned more leisurely to the house. If you ever want a job of landscape-gardening thoroughly well done, you can always rely upon me. <hr /> <h3>THE SAME OLD STORY</h3> We stood in a circle round the parrot's cage and gazed with interest at its occupant. She (Evangeline) was balancing easily on one leg, while with the other leg and her beak she tried to peel a monkey-nut. There are some of us who hate to be watched at meals, particularly when dealing with the dessert, but Evangeline is not of our number. "There," said Mrs. Atherley, "isn't she a beauty?" I felt that, as the last to be introduced, I ought to say something. "What do you say to a parrot?" I whispered to Miss Atherley. "Have a banana," suggested Reggie. "I believe you say, 'Scratch-a-poll,'" said Miss Atherley, "but I don't know why." "Isn't that rather dangerous? Suppose it retorted 'Scratch your own,' I shouldn't know a bit how to go on." "It can't talk," said Reggie. "It's quite a baby—only seven months old. But it's no good showing it your watch; you must think of some other way of amusing it." "Break it to me, Reggie. Have I been asked down solely to amuse the parrot, or did any of you others want to see me?" "Only the parrot," said Reggie. Evangeline paid no attention to us. She continued to wrestle with the monkey-nut. I should say that she was a bird not easily amused. "Can't it really talk at all?" I asked Mrs. Atherley. "Not yet. You see, she's only just come over from South America, and isn't used to the climate yet." "But that's just the person you'd expect to talk a lot about the weather. I believe you've been had. Write a little note to the poulterers and ask if you can change it. You've got a bad one by mistake." "We got it as a bird," said Mrs. Atherley with dignity, "not as a gramophone." The next morning Evangeline was as silent as ever. Miss Atherley and I surveyed it after breakfast. It was still grappling with a monkey-nut, but no doubt a different one. "Isn't it ever going to talk?" I asked. "Really, I thought parrots were continually chatting." "Yes, but they have to be taught—just like you teach a baby." "Are you sure? I quite see that you have to teach them any special things you want them to say, but I thought they were all born with a few simple obvious remarks, like 'Poor Polly,' or—or 'Dash Lloyd George.'" "I don't think so," said Miss Atherley. "Not the green ones." At dinner that evening, Mr. Atherley being now with us, the question of Evangeline's education was seriously considered. "The only proper method," began Mr. Atherley——"By the way," he said, turning to me, "you don't know anything about parrots, do you?" "No," I said. "You can go on quite safely." "The only proper method of teaching a parrot—I got this from a man in the City this morning—is to give her a word at a time, and to go on repeating it over and over again until she's got hold of it." "And after that the parrot goes on repeating it over and over again until you've got sick of it," said Reggie. "Then we shall have to be very careful what word we choose," said Mrs. Atherley. "What is your favourite word?" "Well, really——" "Animal, vegetable, or mineral?" asked Archie. "This is quite impossible. Every word by itself seems so silly." "Not 'home' and 'mother,'" I said reproachfully. "You shall recite your little piece in the drawing-room afterwards," said Miss Atherley to me. "Think of something sensible now." "Yes," said Mrs. Atherley. "What's the latest word from London?" "Kikuyu." "What?" "I can't say it again," I protested. "If you can't even say it twice, it's no good for Evangeline." A thoughtful silence fell upon us. "Have you fixed on a name for her yet?" Miss Atherley asked her mother. "Evangeline, of course." "No, I mean a name for her to call you. Because if she's going to call you 'Auntie' or 'Darling,' or whatever you decide on, you'd better start by teaching her that." And then I had a brilliant idea. "I've got the very word," I said. "It's 'hallo.' You see, it's a pleasant form of greeting to any stranger, and it will go perfectly with the next word that she's taught, whatever it may be." "Supposing it's 'wardrobe,'" suggested Reggie, "or 'sardine'?" "Why not? 'Hallo, Sardine' is the perfect title for a revue. Witty, subtle, neat—probably the great brain of the Revue King has already evolved it, and is planning the opening scene." "Yes, 'hallo' isn't at all bad," said Mr. Atherley. "Anyway, it's better than 'Poor Polly,' which is simply morbid. Let's fix on 'hallo.'" "Good," said Mrs. Atherley. Evangeline said nothing, being asleep under her blanket. <hr class="min" /> I was down first next morning, having forgotten to wind up my watch overnight. Longing for company, I took the blanket off Evangeline's cage and introduced her to the world again. She stirred sleepily, opened her eyes and blinked at me. "Hallo, Evangeline," I said. She made no reply. Suddenly a splendid scheme occurred to me. I would teach Evangeline her word now. How it would surprise the others when they came down and said "Hallo" to her, to find themselves promptly answered back! "Evangeline," I said, "listen. Hallo, hallo, hallo, hallo." I stopped a moment and went on more slowly. "Hallo—hallo—hallo." It was dull work. "Hallo," I said, "hallo—hallo—hallo," and then very distinctly, "Hal-lo." Evangeline looked at me with an utterly bored face. "Hallo," I said, "hallo—hallo." She picked up a monkey-nut and ate it languidly. "Hallo," I went on, "hallo, hallo ... hallo, hallo, HALLO, HALLO ... hallo, hallo——" She dropped her nut and roused herself for a moment. "Number engaged," she snapped, and took another nut. <hr class="min" /> You needn't believe this. The others didn't when I told them. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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