Without Souls
I.—The Builders
I
Mrs. Thrush. What do you think of that hawthorn?
Mr. Thrush. Oh, no, my dear, no; much too isolated, it would attract attention at once. I can hear the boys on a Sunday afternoon—“Hullo, there’s a tree that’s bound to have a nest in it.” And then where are you? You know what boys are on a Sunday afternoon? You remember that from last year, when we lost the finest clutch of eggs in the county.
Mrs. Thrush. Stop, stop, dear, I can’t bear it. Why do you remind me of it?
Mr. Thrush. There, there, compose yourself, my pretty. What other suggestions have you?
Mrs. Thrush. One of the laurels, then, in the shrubbery at the Great House.
Mr. Thrush. Much better. But the trouble there is the cat.
Mrs. Thrush. Oh, dear, I wish you’d find a place without me; I assure you (blushing) it’s time.
Mr. Thrush. Well, my notion, as I have said all along, is that there’s nothing to beat the very middle of a big bramble. I don’t mind whether it’s in the hedge or whether it’s on the common. But it must be the very middle. It doesn’t matter very much then whether it’s seen or not, because no one can reach it.
Mrs. Thrush. Very well, then, be it so; but do hurry with the building, there’s a dear.
II
Mr. Tree-Creeper. I’ve had the most extraordinary luck. Listen. You know that farmhouse by the pond. Well, there’s a cow-shed with a door that won’t shut, and even if it would, it’s got a hole in it, and in the roof, at the very top, there’s a hollow. It’s the most perfect place you ever saw, because, even if the farmer twigged us, he couldn’t get at the nest without pulling off a lot of tiles. Do you see?
Mrs. Tree-Creeper. It sounds perfect.
Mr. Tree-Creeper. Yes, but it’s no use waiting here. We must collar it at once. There were a lot of prying birds all about when I was there, and I noticed a particularly nosey flycatcher watching me all the time. Come along quick; and you’d better bring a piece of hay with you to look like business.
III
Mr. Wren. Well, darling, what shall it be this year—one of those boxes at “The Firs,” or the letter-box at “Meadow View,” where the open-air journalist lives, or shall we build for ourselves like honest wrens?
Mrs. Wren. I leave it to you, dearest. Just as you wish.
Mr. Wren. No, I want your help. I’ll just give you the pros and cons.
Mrs. Wren. Yes, dear, do; you’re so clear-headed.
Mr. Wren. Listen then. If we use the nest-box there’s nothing to do, no fag of building, but we have to put up with visitors peeping in every day and pawing the eggs or the kids about. If we use the letter-box we shall have to line it, and there will be some of the same human fussiness to endure; but on the other hand, we shall become famous—we shall get into the papers. Don’t you see the heading, “Remarkable Nest in Surrey”? And then it will go on, “A pair of wrens have chosen a strange abode in which to rear their little fluffy brood——” and so forth.
Mrs. Wren. That’s rather delightful, all the same.
Mr. Wren. Finally, there is the nest which we build ourselves, running just the ordinary risks of boys and ornithologists, but feeling at any rate that we are independent. What do you say?
Mrs. Wren. Well, dearest, I think I say the last.
Mr. Wren. Good. Spoken like a brave hen. Then let’s look about for a site at once.
IV
Mr. Swallow. I’ve looked at every house with decent eaves in the whole place until I’m ready to drop.
Mrs. Swallow. What do you think about it?
Mr. Swallow. Well, it’s a puzzle. There’s the Manor House: I began with that. There is good holding there, but the pond is a long way off, and carrying mud so far would be a fearful grind. None the less it’s a well-built house, and I feel sure we shouldn’t be disturbed.
Mrs. Swallow. What about the people?
Mr. Swallow. How funny you are about the people always! Never mind. All I can find out is that there’s the squire and his wife and a companion.
Mrs. Swallow. No children?
Mr. Swallow. None.
Mrs. Swallow. Then I don’t care for the Manor House. Tell me of another.
Mr. Swallow. This is the merest sentiment; but no matter. The Vicarage next.
Mrs. Swallow. Any children there?
Mr. Swallow. No, but it’s much nearer the pond.
Mrs. Swallow. And the next?
Mr. Swallow. The farmhouse. A beautiful place with a pond at your very door. Everything you require, and lots of company. Good sheltered eaves, too.
Mrs. Swallow. Any children?
Mr. Swallow. Yes, one little girl.
Mrs. Swallow. Isn’t there any house with babies?
Mr. Swallow. Only one that could possibly be any use to us; but it’s a miserably poor place. No style.
Mrs. Swallow. How many babies?
Mr. Swallow. Twins, just born, and others of one and two and three.
Mrs. Swallow. We’ll build there.
Mr. Swallow. They’ll make a horrible row all night.
Mrs. Swallow. We’ll build there.
II.—Bush’s Grievance
I am very happy for the most part. I have perfect health and a good appetite, and They are very good to me here: let me worry them at meals, and toss me little bits—chiefly bread and toast, I admit, but nice bread and nice toast; and though He spends far too much time indoors with books and things, and She doesn’t go for walks, and the puppy-girl has a dog of her own, and doesn’t want me (nor do I want her), yet I manage pretty well, for there is a boy who often goes to the village, through the rabbit fields, and takes me with him, and there is a big house near by where the servants throw away quite large bones only half-scraped. Either they are extravagant or they don’t make that horrid watery stuff, the ruination of good bones, which My People here will begin their dinner with.
So you see I don’t do badly; and, though now and then I have to be whacked, still it doesn’t hurt much, and He only half knows how to do it; while as for Her (when He’s away), She’s just useless.
But my grievance, you say? Oh, yes, I have one grievance, and talking it over with other dogs, particularly spaniels (like me), I find that it’s a very common one. My grievance is the game they will play instead of going for a walk. In winter it’s all right, They walk then; but in summer They will play this game. I can’t make head or tail of it myself, but They simply adore it. It is played with four balls—blue and red and black and yellow—and hoops. First one of Them hits a ball, and then the other. It goes on for ever. I do all I can to show Them what I think of it: I lie down just in front of the player; sometimes I even stop the balls completely; but They don’t take the hint: They just shout at me or prod me with the mallet.
That’s my grievance. Of course it was pretty bad when They got a dog for the little puppy-girl, especially as it is not a breed I care for; but that I can stand. It’s this wretched monopolizing game that I can’t stand. I hate it.
III.—A London Landmark
I am the biggest of the elephants—the one that keeps on nodding its head. Why I do that I’ll tell you later. The habit began some years ago. You see, I am getting on. I have been here ever since 1876, and that’s a long time. I was thinking the other day of all the things that have happened since I moved to Regent’s Park from Ceylon, and really it is wonderful. For I hear what’s going on. In between remarks about how big I am, and how restless I am, and what a wicked little eye I’ve got, the people say all kinds of things about the events of the day. Last Sunday I heard all about the Suffragettes, for instance. There wasn’t much talk about Suffragettes in 1876.
I read what’s going on too. Now and then some one drops a paper or I borrow the keeper’s. It took me a long time to learn to read, but I know now. I began with the notices about pickpockets, which are everywhere in these Gardens. That’s an old thing, isn’t it? We four-footed creatures, whom you all come to stare at and patronize, at any rate have no pockets to pick, and therefore are spared one of your weaknesses. (Except of course the kangaroo.) I mastered the pickpocket notice first, and then I learned the meaning of the one about smoking in my house. And so by degrees I knew it all, and it’s now quite simple. I can read anything. I wish the people who came here could read as well. It says as plain as can be on my little door-plate thing, in front of the railings, that I am—that I am a lady—but how many visitors do you suppose refer to me as “she” or “her”? Not more than three out of the hundred. I count sometimes, just for fun. That’s really why I nod: I’m counting. “Isn’t he enormous?” they say. “Look at his funny little eye?” “Would you like to give him a bun, dearie?” and so on. And all the time, if only education were properly managed in this country, they could read my sex. It’s on the board all right.
I have been here longer than any one except the hippopotamus, which was born here in 1872. But to be born here is dull. I had six years of Ceylon first; I am a traveller. Supposing that I got away I should know what to do; but that old hippo wouldn’t. Homekeeping hippos have ever homely wits, as the proverb has it.
Do you know that in 1876 Winston was only two years old? Think of it. He used to be brought to see me when he was a tiny toddle with quite a small head. I’ve given him many a ride on my back. I often wonder what is the future of the children who put buns in my trunk and ride on my back, but this is the only one I can remember who got into office so young.
It’s an old place, the Zoo. Such queer creatures come and look at me,—lean, eager naturalists, lovers, uncles with small nephews, funny men trying to think of jokes about me. I like the Bank Holidays the best. There’s some pleasure in astonishing simple people; and I like Sundays the least because the clever ones come then. Schoolmasters are the worst, because they lecture on me. My keeper hates them too, because they ask such lots of questions and never give any tips. There’s a fearful desire to know how heavy I am. What does that matter? “My word, I wouldn’t like him (him, of course) to tread on my favourite corn!”—I wonder how often I’ve heard that joke. The English make all their jokes again. They say things, too, about my trunk—packing it up and so on—till I could die of sheer ennui.