“There be three Badgers on a mossy stone,
Beside a dark and covered way:
Each dreams himself a monarch on his throne,
And so they stay and stay—
Though their old Father languishes alone,
They stay, and stay, and stay.“There be three Herrings loitering around,
Longing to share that mossy seat:
Each Herring tries to sing what she has found
That makes Life seem so sweet.
Thus, with a grating and uncertain sound,
They bleat, and bleat, and bleat.“The Mother-Herring, on the salt sea-wave,
Sought vainly for her absent ones:
The Father-Badger, writhing in a cave,
Shrieked out ‘Return, my sons!
You shall have buns,’ he shrieked, ‘if you’ll behave!
Yea, buns, and buns, and buns!’“ ‘I fear,’ said she, ‘your sons have gone astray?
My daughters left me while I slept.’
‘Yes ’m,’ the Badger said: ‘it’s as you say.’
‘They should be better kept.’
Thus the poor parents talked the time away,
And wept, and wept, and wept.”
Here Bruno broke off suddenly. “The Herrings’ Song wants anuvver tune, Sylvie,” he said. “And I can’t sing it—not wizout oo plays it for me!”
Instantly Sylvie seated herself upon a tiny mushroom, that happened to grow in front of a daisy, as if it were the most ordinary musical instrument in the world, and played on the petals as if they were the notes of an organ. And such delicious tiny music it was! Such teeny-tiny music!
Bruno held his head on one side, and listened very gravely for a few moments until he had caught the melody. Then the sweet childish voice rang out once more:—
“Oh, dear beyond our dearest dreams,
Fairer than all that fairest seems!
To feast the rosy hours away,
To revel in a roundelay!
How blest would be
A life so free—
Ipwergis-Pudding to consume,
And drink the subtle Azzigoom!“And if, in other days and hours,
Mid other fluffs and other flowers,
The choice were given me how to dine—
‘Name what thou wilt: it shall be thine!’
Oh, then I see
The life for me—
Ipwergis-Pudding to consume,
And drink the subtle Azzigoom!”
“Oo may leave off playing now, Sylvie. I can do the uvver tune much better wizout a compliment.”
“He means ‘without accompaniment,’ ” Sylvie whispered, smiling at my puzzled look: and she pretended to shut up the stops of the organ.
“The Badgers did not care to talk to Fish:
They did not dote on Herrings’ songs:
They never had experienced the dish
To which that name belongs:
‘And oh, to pinch their tails,’ (this was their wish,)
‘With tongs, yea, tongs, and tongs!’ ”
I ought to mention that he marked the parenthesis, in the air, with his finger. It seemed to me a very good plan. You know there’s no sound to represent it—any more than there is for a question.
Suppose you have said to your friend, “You are better today,” and that you want him to understand that you are asking him a question, what can be simpler than just to make a “?” in the air with your finger? He would understand you in a moment!
“ ‘And are not these the Fish,’ the Eldest sighed,
‘Whose Mother dwells beneath the foam?’
‘They are the Fish!’ the Second one replied.
‘And they have left their home!’
‘Oh wicked Fish,’ the Youngest Badger cried,
‘To roam, yea, roam, and roam!’“Gently the Badgers trotted to the shore—
The sandy shore that fringed the bay:
Each in his mouth a living Herring bore—
Those aged ones waxed gay:
Clear rang their voices through the ocean’s roar,
‘Hooray, hooray, hooray!’ ”
“So they all got safe home again,” Bruno said, after waiting a minute to see if I had anything to say: he evidently felt that some remark ought to be made. And I couldn’t help wishing there were some such rule in Society, at the conclusion of a song—that the singer herself should say the right thing, and not leave it to the audience. Suppose a young lady has just been warbling (“with a grating and uncertain sound”) Shelley’s exquisite lyric “I arise from dreams of thee”: how much nicer it would be, instead of your having to say “Oh, thank you, thank you!” for the young lady herself to remark, as she draws on her gloves, while the impassioned words “Oh, press it to thine own, or it will break at last!” are still ringing in your ears, “—but she wouldn’t do it, you know. So it did break at last.”
“And I knew it would!” she added quietly, as I started at the sudden crash of broken glass. “You’ve been holding it sideways for the last minute, and letting all the champagne run out! Were you asleep, I wonder? I’m so sorry my singing has such a narcotic effect!”
XVIII
Queer Street, Number Forty
Lady Muriel was the speaker. And, for the moment, that was the only fact I could clearly realise. But how she came to be there—and how I came to be there—and how the glass of champagne came to be there—all these were questions which I felt it better to think out in silence, and not commit myself to any statement till I understood things a little more clearly.
“First accumulate a mass of Facts: and then construct a Theory.” That, I believe, is the true Scientific Method. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and began to accumulate Facts.
A smooth grassy slope, bounded, at the upper end, by venerable ruins half buried in ivy, at the lower, by a stream seen through arching trees—a dozen gaily-dressed people, seated in little groups, here and there—some open hampers—the debris of a picnic—such were the Facts accumulated by the Scientific Researcher. And now, what deep, far-reaching Theory was he to construct from them? The Researcher found himself at fault. Yet stay! One Fact had escaped his notice. While all the rest were grouped in twos and in threes, Arthur was alone: while all tongues
