Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers. Stables Gordon

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      At ordinary times, when we might be merely squatting together on a goatskin rug, reading “Robinson Crusoe,” or turning over the leaves of a huge “Arabian Nights” to look at the pictures, it did not matter much. But always when I proposed a game at anything very ridiculous – and it was always I who did make the proposition – before we began, I would say —

      “Wait half a minute, Jill, let’s play at the chair being naughty first.”

      This was only an excuse, of course, to have the chair turned round with its back to us.

      Then I would walk up to it, and with my forefinger raised chidingly —

      “You are a naughty old chair,” I would say; “you cannot be at rest five minutes at a time, and I am afraid you are showing your brother a bad example. Go into the corner, sir, until I tell you to come out.”

      “Now then,” I would continue, mimicking the fishermen we listened to hoisting their yawls from the beach and surf. “Now then, Jill, lend a hand here, and look lively, lad. Tackle on to her. Merrily matches it. Together. Heave with a will. Up with her. Round she goes, and up she is, and we go rolling home. Hurrah!”

      When we got the chair fairly round with its back to us we felt at peace to do as we liked. We could stand on our heads till our faces got blue and our eyes felt ready to burst; I could make a go-cart of Jill, and haul him all round the room with the skipping-rope; he could make a ship’s mast of me, and squirm up and stand on my shoulders to give three cheers for the Queen and the Royal Navy; we could build a tower with the chairs, and in fact do anything or everything except spill the ink. When we did that it cast a damp gloom over our spirits just as it spread an inky pall over a portion of the table-cloth.

      My father was our friend and playmate whenever he came home. This was not oftener than twice or thrice a week, for he was doing duty with his regiment at the somewhat distant naval and military port of P – . He would fain have come oftener, but dared not offend so kindly a superior officer as Colonel McReady.

      Now auntie did not actually complain to father, but she used to mention some of the maddest of our escapades, and with Jill climbing over the back of his chair, and I, perhaps, standing bolt upright on his knees, balanced by his hands, father would say —

      “You young rascals, what did you do it for? Eh?”

      And this made us laugh like mad things, for we knew father was not angry.

      “Ah, well, auntie dear,” he would say, “boys will be boys.”

      “True,” she would reply; “but boys needn’t be monkeys, need they, Harold?”

      “And really, Harold,” she would add, “the boys would be so different if you were to show just a little more parental authority.”

      This always made dear daddie laugh. I don’t know why. The “parental authority” somehow tickled him, for, as mother used to say, he looked more a boy himself than a wise old parent.

      But father loved auntie as much as any of us did, and looked up to her too. As she was his sister-in-law he needn’t have done that, only she was ever so much older, and, as father would add, “wiser as well.”

      Here is one proof that she had a deal of power over him:

      Father did not hate his uniform; no real soldier does, although I have heard some say they did; but he did not see the fun, as he called it, of wearing it when off duty. He was off duty going to church on Sundays, but he went in uniform, nevertheless. Why? Because auntie like to see him dressed so.

      Mother did not always go to church, because she was delicate; but father and auntie and we boys invariably did.

      Let me think a moment. How old would we have been then? Oh, about nine. Dressed exactly alike – black jackets alike, broad white collars alike, tall silk hats alike – the hats were auntie’s notion of the severely genteel – and little rattan canes alike.

      Faces and eyes and hair all alike. So much alike were we, indeed, on a Sunday morning, that if any one, except mamma and auntie, who I daresay had their own private marks, called us by our correct names, it was just guesswork or merely chance.

      Father made no attempt at distinguishing us on Sundays and holidays. If, for example, he had given Jill a penny with a view to lollipops, and I came round soon after, he would say:

      “Let me see, now – I gave you a penny before, didn’t I?”

      Or he would quiz me, and say, “Are you Jack, or are you Jill?”

      It will be observed that father had taken to call us Jack and Jill, though auntie rather objected.

      But hardly any one else knew us apart even on week-days; even Sally was puzzled, and Robert never made any attempt at nomenclature.

      In fact we were a kind of Corsican brothers in similitude, for, if I remember rightly, they were twins like Jill and me.

      On the Sunday afternoons my brother and I were sent, if the weather was fine, to take a stroll along by the windings and bendings of the beach, between the green rising hills and banks and the sea. We went all alone, and were recommended by auntie to think about all good things as we walked, to study the strange objects strewn on the sand or left by the receding waves, to gaze upon the sea, the sky, the rocks, and the beautiful birds, and to remember our Father in heaven made them all. We were not to think our week-day thoughts, but rigidly to banish and exclude therefrom, tops, whips, balls, and boats; we were not to fling pebbles, nor jump on seaweed; we must walk erect not too close to the water, for fear of our boots, and if a shower came on we were to wrap our pocket-handkerchiefs round our hats and make straight for home.

      All these injunctions we did our best to obey, except one which I have forgotten to name: we were not to laugh. Now we would have obeyed auntie even in this, but sometimes we were carried away by curious things occurring. Anyhow, it did not take much to make us laugh, I fear, even on Sunday. Take one walk as an example.

      It was a lovely summer’s afternoon, hardly any wind, the sea almost glassy or glossy – use which word you please; far out were vessels with all kinds of queer rigs half-becalmed, and close in the foreground the breakers rolling in so lazily that it seemed a stress for them to break at all. There was a dreamy stillness in the air, and even the sea-birds seemed to feel its influence, and floated half asleep on the sleeping billows.

      Jill and I were walking a little apart when we met a big red dog. He half started when he saw the pair of us, glanced quickly from one to the other, gave a short bark which appeared forced out of him, and trotted off with his tail between his hocks. He must have seen, or thought he saw, something odd about us.

      We laughed, but thought of auntie.

      Then we went on and on and came to a cottage where there was a very wise game-cock with a flock of very wise-looking hens. We always stopped to look at them, they had such a contented and happy, stay-at-home look about them. And, strange to say, this cock used to march his hens down the garden path, and then they all stopped to study Jill and me. And the cock used to eye us with one side of his red head and cry, “Kr-rr-rr-rr – !” in so droll a way that we laughed again, and this time forgot all about auntie.

      A little farther on we met a whole bevy of schoolgirls, and they all looked at us, and while the youngest giggled outright, the oldest put their fingers to their lips to hide their smiles, and we heard one of them say “hats.” Jill did not like this I know, for he pursed up his mouth and presently said, “Jack, if СКАЧАТЬ