Aileen Aroon, A Memoir. Stables Gordon

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      And here and there a lusty trout,

      And here and there a grayling.’

      “‘Yes,’ from another fellow, ‘and of course a comfortable house of solid English masonry, and hounds not very far off, so as one could cut away to a hunt whenever he liked.’

      “‘And of course balls and parties, and a good dinner every day.’

      “‘And picnics often, and the seaside in season, and shooting all the year round.’

      “‘And I’d go in for bees.’

      “‘Oh! yes, I think every fellow would go in for bees.’

      “‘And have a field of Scottish heather planted on purpose for them: fancy how nice that would look in summer!’

      “‘And I’d have a rose garden.’

      “‘Certainly; nothing could be done without a rose garden.’

      “‘Then one could go in for poultry, and grow one’s own eggs.’

      “‘Hear the fellow! – fancy growing eggs!’

      “‘Well, lay them, then – it’s all the same. I’m not so green as to imagine eggs grow on trees.’

      “‘And think of the fruit one might have.’

      “‘And the mushroom beds.’

      “‘And brew one’s own beer and cider.’

      “‘And of course one could go in for dogs.’

      “‘Oh! la! yes – have them all about the place. Elegant Irish setters, dainty greyhounds, cobby wee fox-terriers, a noble Newfoundland or two, and a princely bloodhound at each side of the hall-door.’

      “‘That’s the style!’

      “‘Now, give us a song, Pelham!’

      “‘What shall it be – Dibdin?’

      “‘No, Pelham, give us, “Sweet Jessie, the Flower o’ Dumblane,” or something in that style. Let us fancy we are farmers. Doesn’t she pitch and roll, though! Dibdin and Russell are all very well on shore, or sitting under an awning in fine weather when homeward bound. We’re not homeward bound – worse luck! – so heave round with the “Flower o’ Dumblane.”’

      “My dream has in some measure been fulfilled, my good friend Frank; I can sit now under my own vine and my own fig-tree, but still look back with a certain degree of pleasure to many a night spent on board that heaving, pitching, saucy, wee ship.”

      Our new home nestles among trees not far from a very primitive wee town indeed. We have only to descend along the hill-side through the pine-trees, wind some way round the knoll, and there at our feet lies our village – Fernydale, to wit. It might just as well be called Sleepy Hollow, such a dreamy little spot it is. Not very far from a great line of rails – just far enough to subdue the roar of the trains, that night and day go whirling past in a drowsy monotone, like the distant sound of falling water. Everything and everybody about our little village looks quiet and drowsy; the little church itself, that nestles among the wealth of foliage, looks the picture of drowsiness, and the very smoke seems as if it preferred lingering in Fernydale to ascending upwards and joining the clouds. We have a mill here – oh! such a drowsy old mill! No one was ever known to be able to pass that mill without nodding. Intoxicated lieges, who have lain down to rest opposite that mill, have been known to sleep the sleep that knows no waking; and if at any time you stop your horse for a moment on the road, while you talk to the miller, the animal soon begins to nod; and he nods, and nods, and nid-nid-nods, and finally goes to sleep entirely, and it takes no end of trouble to start him off again.

      Our very birds are drowsy. The larks don’t care to sing a bit more than suffices for conjugal felicity, and the starlings are constantly tumbling down our bedroom chimney, and making such a row that we think the burglars have come.

      The bees are drowsy; they don’t gather honey with any degree of activity; they don’t seem to care whether they gather it or not. They are often too lazy to fly back to hive, and don’t go home till morning; and if you were to take a walk along our road at early dawn – say 11:45 a.m. – you would often find these bees sitting limp-winged and half asleep on fragrant thistle-tops, and if you poked at them with a stalk of hay, and tried to reason with them, they would just lift one lazy fore-leg and beckon you off, as much as to say, peevishly —

      “Oh! what was I born for? Can’t you leave a poor fellow alone? What do ye come pottering around here at midnight for?”

      Such is the hum-drum drowsiness of little Fernydale.

      But bonny is our cottage in spring and summer, when the pink-eyed chestnuts are all ablaze at the foot of the lawn, when flowers bloom white on the scented rowans, when the yellow gorse on the knoll beyond glints through the green of the trees, when the merlin sings among the drooping limes, and the croodling pigeons make soft-eyed love on the eaves; and there is beauty about it, too, even in winter, when the world is robed in snow, when the leafless branches point to leaden skies, and the robin, tired of his sweet little song, taps on the panes with his tiny bill, for the crumbs he has never to ask for in vain.

      It was one winter’s evening in the year eighteen hundred and seventy something, that Frank stood holding our parlour-door in his hand, while he gazed with a pleased smile at the group around the fire. It wasn’t a large group. There were Dot and Ida knitting: and my humble self sitting, book in hand and pipe in mouth. Then there were the Newfoundland dogs on the hearth, and pussy singing on the footstool, singing a duet with the kettle on the hob. And I must not forget to mention “Poll,” the parrot. Nobody knew how old Polly was, but with her extreme wisdom you couldn’t help associating age. She didn’t speak much at a time; like many another sage, she went in for being laconic, pithy, and to the point. I think, however, that some day or other Polly will tell us quite a long story, for she often clears her throat and says, “Now,” in quite an emphatic manner; then she cocks her head, and says “Are you listening?”

      “We are all attention, Polly,” we reply. So Polly begins again with her decided “Now;” but up to this date she has not succeeded in advancing one single sentence farther towards the completion of her story.

      Well, upon the winter’s evening in question Frank stood there, holding the door and smiling to himself, and any one could see at a glance that Frank was pregnant with an idea.

      “I’ve been thinking,” said Frank, “that there is nothing needed to complete the happiness of the delightful evenings we spend here, except a story-teller.”

      “No one better able than yourself, Frank, to fill the post,” I remarked.

      “Well, now,” said Frank, “for that piece of arrant flattery, I fine you a story.”

      “Read us that little sketch about ‘Dandie,’” my wife said.

      “Yes, do,” cried Ida, looking up from her work.

      If a man is asked to do anything like this he ought to do it heartily.

      Dandie, I may premise, is, or rather was, a contemporary of Aileen Aroon.

      A very long doggie is Dandie, with little short bits of legs, СКАЧАТЬ