CHAPTER VI.
AN EXPERIENCE.
Florence Brand presented herself at her sister’s house on the following morning, to take her to a large registry office, “You’ll see plenty of girls there,” she said. “You must be prepared to wait a while if you are told that a suitable article is not then on the premises.”
“I suppose I shall get home before my half-past-one dinner-hour?” said Lucy.
“It is not in the power of woman to prophesy when you will get home,” Florence answered. “But surely,” she cried, as her little nephew came in equipped for a walk, “you do not dream of taking Hugh with us?”
“Certainly I do!” answered Lucy. “It may not be much of a pleasure for him; but he is good and patient. Indeed, there is nothing else to be done.”
“Cannot you leave him with your charwoman?” asked Florence. “Don’t you think she is respectable?”
“Hugh,” said his mother, “run upstairs and find my gloves in my bedroom. Yes,” she replied to her sister as the child ran off, “Mrs. Sim is perfectly respectable as a charwoman. But I know nothing of her as regards children. She might think it kind to indulge Hugh with lumps of sugar, or by telling him stories of ghosts or murders.”
“Well,” said Florence, “you think I am hard on the lower orders; but I’m sure I’d leave my youngsters in their charge for a few hours—in one’s own house too, where there can be nothing dirty or infectious. I don’t know much more of the nurses I hire than you do of your Mrs. Sim.”
“I could trust Hugh with Pollie without any misgiving,” answered Mrs. Challoner. “I knew her ways with him as I know my own.”
She said no more, though she might have added that nothing but bitter compulsion would induce her to trust her darling to the tender mercies—mental and moral—of many women not of the “lower orders,” even of Florence herself!—whose motherly methods were by no means those of her sister.
The registry office was kept in an old-fashioned house in an old-fashioned street. A few men, with that undefinable stamp which marks a manservant, were lounging about the door, while dotted over the pavement were groups of smart and voluble young women. Now and then one of them raised a shrill mirthless laugh.
Lucy’s heart sank within her.
“Of course, some of all sorts come to these places,” said Florence reassuringly. “Let me tell you these very girls would pass muster in any respectable house once they are arrayed in their caps and aprons. They put on their good manners with their livery.”
Lucy wondered whether it may be true wisdom to insist on a garb which so easily becomes a mere domino in which very unexpected human nature may masquerade.
“We shall have to go up to the second floor,” whispered Mrs. Brand. “The menservants are seen on the ground floor, cooks and head-housemaids on the first, and smaller fry, such as we want, on the second. Possibly lodging-house keepers interview their little slaveys in the attics.”
Women hanging about on the landings managed to make plain their contempt for ladies who were manifestly seeking a mere “general.” The front room on the second floor was so thronged that the sisters could scarcely find standing room. It was not easy to distinguish between mistresses and maids, for nobody was of a refined type, and in dress—at least, on first glance—all seemed equally smart and fashionable.
A clerk of the office was edging about, note-book in hand. She was a red-faced middle-aged woman, wearing a dusty, jet-trimmed black alpaca gown.
“A general servant is scarcely to be had, madam,” she said.
“Then what are all these?” asked Mrs. Brand. “I thought this was the ‘general servants’ department.”
“So it is. But most of these are general servants ‘where another is kept.’ They would not go as a single hand,” explained the clerk.
“I must have one who will consent to do so,” said Lucy. Something in her low clear voice and simple decision of manner made the registry office clerk turn and look at her. This was not the style of mistress with whom she was best acquainted.
“I will try to please you, madam,” said the clerk. “I fear there is nobody suitable in the house at present. But one may come in at any moment. A great many girls do not appear till about noon. May I ask you to take a seat? There is a sofa vacant near the window.”
As the sisters took their seats on the shabby little sofa, two or three gaudy girls strolled past them, inspecting them from their hats down to their boots.
Lucy whispered—
“This puts me in mind of what we used to read about the slave marts in the States.”
“Yes, only it is the employers who are now on view!” said Florence snappily.
“I don’t know whether that makes it either worse—or better,” Lucy answered, drawing Hugh closer to her side.
The next moment a tall raw-boned woman with a forbidding countenance stepped up and bluntly asked,
“Are you wantin’ a general servant?”
“Yes, I am,” Lucy replied, her heart sinking within her.
“I’m looking for a place. What wages do you give?”
Lucy named the sum she had paid Pollie.
“That’s not very high for a general,” observed the woman.
“It is a very quiet situation,” said Lucy.
“H’m!—out in some country place, I suppose?”
“No,” answered Lucy, “my house is in Bloomsbury.” She was cowed into giving answers when she should rather have retorted by questions. Really she did not want to question this woman, or to have anything to do with her. Yet in this place she had not courage to say so. Mrs. Brand did not come to the rescue.
“Bloomsbury houses are pretty big—too big for one woman.”
“Mine is a small house,” faltered Lucy.
“How many in family?”
“Only two,” Lucy answered; “myself and this little boy.”
“D’ye expect me to do the washing?”
Lucy was ready to cry out that she did not “expect” her to do anything, except to go away! But she was so demoralised that she meekly replied—
“My last servant did the washing, with help; but if I get one who suits me in other ways, I am willing to put the washing out.”
“Are you a widder, then?”
Lucy’s heart thumped.
“No, my husband is on a long voyage.”
“A ship-captain is he?”
“No, he is travelling for his health. He will be at home within the year.”
An expression came into the woman’s insolent eye, which Lucy did not understand, though it made her feel hot. The woman gave her head a significant little wag. It meant something apart from what she said, though her words were insolent enough.
“I reckon there won’t be much regular cooking in your place. There never is, where there isn’t a proper master. I don’t think your place will suit me.”
“I am sure it will not!” said Lucy quietly.
One or two tawdry girls who had come up to listen to this colloquy nudged each other and laughed at the discomfiture of their fellow-worker.
“Well, you’ve got rid of her,” observed Florence. “The idea of her asking all those questions! What right have they to know anything except the work which will be required of them and the wages they are to get?”
“I don’t say that,” said Lucy. “Before a woman accepts a place, I think she has a right to know whether it is quite respectable—and many little details beside. But she might have waited till I had first put some questions to her. Fancy, if I had behaved so when I went, a stranger, to look after the first appointment I had at the Institute!”
Florence made an impatient gesture.
“You compare things which have no standard of comparison,” she said. “You are a lady and know how to behave and to keep your proper place. These creatures don’t. They must be taught. If you had taken that woman in the right way, and talked down to her and cheapened her well, she would have respected you, and she might have turned out a servant good enough.”
“Florence, dear,” pleaded Lucy, “I would not wish to take any woman into my house who could behave so. And her appearance was horrid!”
“She would have done up decently enough if you had insisted on it,” said Florence. “Why need you care how uncouth a servant looks so long as you can get plenty of work out of her? It is not as if you had a professional man in your house, and had to think of a girl’s appearance in opening the door. Do better next time. Here comes another.”
“Are you wanting a general servant, ma’am?” said the girl, advancing towards Mrs. Challoner.
This was a younger woman than the last. Better looking too, despite the draggled feather which overhung her hat. There was some pertness in her voice and manner. But Lucy was not repelled by her as by the other, and was therefore brave enough to carry on some catechism on her own side.
“You have been a general servant before?”
“Yes, m’m; I’ve never been anything else.”
“Then you have plenty of experience, and know what you are undertaking?”
“I’ve been in places, m’m, since I was fifteen. I’m twenty-two now.” She looked at least four years older.
Again Mrs. Challoner stated the wages she gave, adding some rough sketch of the duties of the place.
“I am sure a reliable girl will find it comfortable,” she said. “And now—if we agree on other things—what references have you to give me?”
The rather haggard face fell; but the pert voice answered undauntedly—
“I was three months in my last place, m’m, and they’ve got nothing to say against me.”
“Three months is a very short time,” commented Lucy. “Why did you leave?”
“Well, m’m, the missis had such a temper as never was.” A pause. “She couldn’t get no girl to stay.”
“She will give you a character?”
“Well, m’m, it’s a shame if she didn’t! I’ve had nothing against my character.”
“She could not know you very well in three months’ time,” mused Lucy. “But she could at least tell me the character she got when she engaged you.”
“She never asked a character,” said the girl. “Ah, m’m, she was too glad to get anybody. She knowed her own temper and that no one wouldn’t stay.”
Lucy looked at her with considering eyes.
“If I were a servant,” said she, “I would not go where my character was not sought for. I should feel sure it could not be a good place.”
The girl muttered something about ladies being sometimes hard put to it and in a dreadful hurry, and about “a poor girl having to get her bread.”
Lucy’s charity instantly accepted all such possible excuses.
“If you explained the circumstances to the mistress you lived with before this last, perhaps she would allow me to make a few inquiries about you?”
“She might,” the girl said; “but some ladies do not like to be troubled.”
“How long were you in that situation?” asked Lucy.
“Six weeks,” answered the girl. “There was a fire, and after that they made some changes, and that was why I came away.”
“But I do not like the look of this,” observed Lucy. “And what about the situation before that?”
“I don’t know where those people are,” said the girl, a sullenness coming over her. “The master bankrupted, and it was as much as I could do to get my wages.”
“You have been very unfortunate,” remarked Lucy, pondering whether this might not be simple fact, and whether justice might not demand that she should give the girl “another chance.” Still it was her present duty to get a reliable household helper, and other considerations must take second place to that absolute duty. Yet she shrank from coming to any harsh decision.
“What is the longest time you have kept any situation?” she asked.
“I was a whole year in one,” said the girl, with great self-satisfaction.
“How long is that ago?” inquired Lucy.
“It was my second place,” returned the girl, rather defiantly. “And it was a hard one. For it were a public, an’ the master, he drank, and the missus were dead, and there were six children. I might have been there till to-day,” she went on, “but I had to go into ’orspital, I were that worn out.”
What a life history if it were true! And what a terrible imagination if it were false! But why had the girl found it so hard to keep other places if she had so readily endured the slavery indicated in her words?
“I am afraid you will not suit me,” said Lucy, very gently. “I fear you have had no opportunity to get the experience and training I require.”
“I’ve always been in places, m’m,” answered the girl tartly. “If ten years o’ different places doesn’t give one experience, I don’t know what will!”
“Experience of changes,” said Lucy, “but not experience in work and in regular household ways.”
The girl looked in Lucy’s face and saw that her dismissal was decided.
“Oh, well, m’m, please yourself!” she said. “There’s plenty o’ places goin’ that’ll suit me, and I’d not care to stay long anywhere!”
“You did better this time, Sis,” whispered Florence Brand as the damsel flounced away. “But you must not be too particular. Don’t peep too closely behind their set scenes. If they tell you a lie decently, make believe to believe it. Then, if anything turns out wrong, why, you’ve been deceived, you know, and your credit is saved.”
Lucy scarcely heard what her sister said. The squalid horror of the lives opening before her sickened and suffocated her soul, just as the fetid atmosphere of the crowded room was sickening to her body.
“Poor girl, what chance has she enjoyed?” she said. “She had not a bad face. If I had not been fixed as I am, I might have given her a trial, and have helped her to be glad ‘to stay long somewhere.’ One couldn’t wonder that she wasn’t, if all she told is true.”
Florence laughed.
“True?” she echoed. “Not one word of it! I believe she found out that you weren’t the mistress for her before she told you about ‘the public.’ She reckoned that would choke you off. They are cute enough for anything. True! Why, she openly told you one flaring fib, and you never noticed it!”
“What was it?” asked the bewildered Lucy.
“She said she went into service at fifteen and is twenty-two; and next she said she had been in service ten years. And yet you’re ready to cry over her! Oh, my dear, simple sister! You need not be so sorry for her—be sorry for yourself, in the power of such as she. She needs no pity!”
“This only shows her greater need of pity,” said Lucy; but she had to stoop and soothe Hugh, who was plucking at her dress and saying—
“Let us come away, mamma! I don’t like these people, and the room is so nasty!”
“Poor little dear, he isn’t used to it!” said a voice which Lucy had not heard before.
It was that of a lady seated on a chair half behind the little sofa, which was drawn forward crosswise. This lady was knitting a child’s stocking. She was quietly and neatly dressed, and did not look much more than thirty years of age. She had a pale face, with a sort of enduring stillness upon it, not unlike that of one bearing up against some chronic pain or trouble. She patted Hugh’s shoulder kindly and smiled up into Lucy’s face, adding—
“It’s a great pity any of us have to get used to it!”
“Yes, indeed,” Lucy responded, instantly recognising that she was addressed by another “expectant mistress.” “We have been here more than an hour already, and nobody has even approached me but two most unsuitable women! It is a terrible waste of time!” she added, thinking of the brief wintry daylight in which she had to finish her seaside sketches, which the picture-dealer desired to have in hand before the New Year, and which she herself wished to complete before she took up her teaching at the Institute.
“You don’t know what it is yet!” said the lady, quite cheerfully. “This is the third day I’ve been here—staying on till the afternoon. I’ve seen nobody suitable yet.”
“May I ask if you have ever hired a servant here before?” said Mrs. Challoner.
“I have not,” replied the stranger; “but my husband’s sister did. She came here daily for nearly a week, and when she got a suitable girl, she only stayed two months, because she heard of another place in a neighbourhood she liked better!”
“I wonder almost that you are making this experiment after that experience!” remarked Lucy.
“It does not seem very encouraging,” answered the other; “but what is one to do? And when we get them they don’t work, and don’t they waste and destroy! I wish we could do without servants altogether! I think I could get along finely—if it wasn’t for opening the street door. One cannot do that, you know.”
Lucy was silent, considering. It seemed to her, at that moment, that if Charlie was at home, and no duty of breadwinning lay upon herself, then rather than endure a prolongation and repetition of her present experience, she would spend the remainder of her life in opening her street door to all comers.
The lady accepted her silence as sympathy.
“My sister-in-law says the same,” she went on. “She and her husband have a flat—a pretty little flat near the Parks, where they are rather expensive, so they have one with only five rooms—and they’ve just got one little child. And Minnie says she could manage quite well, if it wasn’t for taking out the perambulator.”
“I always took out my boy myself,” said Lucy, with her arm about Hugh’s neck, “and I often opened the hall door—generally, indeed—because I could see who was coming from my window, and it saved my maid’s running up a flight of stairs.”
The stranger looked at her rather coldly.
“That is the way servants get spoiled,” she remarked. “And they don’t stay with you a bit longer for all your pains.”
“Mine stayed with me seven years, and has only gone away to get married,” said Lucy quietly.
The other gave a little laugh.
“You had better mention that to the girls,” she answered. “I believe it recommends a place. But most of them will feel they have been deceived with false hopes unless the event comes off within seven months! Seven years! Well, you’ve got something to learn now. You have not cut your mistress-teeth yet.”
Lucy felt that her mind was opening to new lines of thought in the world about her. She had always known that Florence thought in these ways; but she had thought that was just Florence. Her own small circle of intimates were people of another sort, being all people who had done real work of some kind or another, and were proud of it, and would have felt hurt to be suspected of idleness. But here were women who were prepared to work (for a glance at the knitter’s hands revealed that truth about her), but who were so ashamed of work that they could do it only out of sight, and were under the mean necessity of hiring a mask to do whatever people must see! How odd it was! And then it flashed into Lucy’s mind that one can scarcely expect very worthy girls to rush eagerly to discharge tasks that other women are simply ashamed to do! If it be so disgraceful to open one’s own door, or to wheel out one’s own baby, why should other women not feel it still more disgraceful to open other people’s doors and wheel out other people’s babies? Why should they not be eager to rush from these discredited duties towards others not yet lying under the same ban?
At that moment the groups in the middle of the room parted a little, and the elderly female clerk of the registry came towards Mrs. Challoner with an unctuous smile spread over her face. Following at her heels was another woman, who was, however, nearly eclipsed by her ample figure.
“I think I have found somebody to suit you, ma’am,” she said. “I think we have been most fortunate. Just the sort of person to please you is not to be found every day. It is quite Providential. I’m so glad you should see her before there is any chance of her being snapped up. I’d advise you to settle with her, madam,” she added, bending over, in a familiar whisper which made Lucy draw back. “She’d have a dozen chances if she were here half an hour. Her very appearance is enough. You’ll speak to me, please, madam, before you go away.”
As she moved aside for her “introduction” to step forward, Lucy beheld a neat, crisp little figure which might have stepped out of a Royal Academy picture of a happy cottage home or mansion nursery. This was not a young woman; she was between forty and fifty, dressed in black, with a small prim bonnet enclosing a neat white cap and tied with narrow white ribbons. The face within the bonnet was well-featured and softly ruddy, the pleasant middle-aged bloom being set off to advantage by the slight frosting of the hair visible beneath the cap. A small straw basket was held firmly in the neat cotton-gloved hands. An angel with shining wings could have hardly looked more apart than she did in that throng of coarse tawdry femininity, nor have been a more unexpected apparition. A well-trained respect, without a dash of servility, was in her voice and manner as she said—
“I am Jessie Morison, ma’am. I understand you want a servant.”
“She’s just your style, Luce,” whispered Florence; “but she’s too old! It’s no use taking people after others have got all the work out of them.”
(To be continued.)
[THE QUEEN’S AVIARY AT WINDSOR.]
By ERNEST M. JESSOP.
FRONT VIEW OF HER MAJESTY’S AVIARY, WINDSOR.
But few of the many who yearly stroll through the lovely glades of Windsor Park know or think of the infinite variety of bird life contained within its boundaries. Many and wide apart in nature and disposition are its feathered rovers. From the tiny tomtit to the lordly golden eagle, from the motherly white Dorking to the wild turkey of Canada, all make or have made for them their homes or their nests.
PLYMOUTH ROCKS.
Many years since (in fact, over thirty) signs of the presence of a great depredator were noticed in the more secluded parts of the forest: one day the remains of some luckless rabbits, another a dead or dying lamb. Traps were set, and a strict watch kept for the poacher. Within a very short period was caught a splendid male specimen of the golden eagle. He was promptly housed in a large wooden enclosure near the head keeper’s house, where he has lived and flourished for more than thirty years; his eye as bright, his talons as strong, his spirit as fierce as when he roamed at will the emperor of the air.
A GOLDEN PHEASANT.
Some four or five years since a comrade was also caught and placed in a similar enclosure beside him, so that, day after day, when sociably inclined, they can exchange harsh-noted confidences. They have so far got used to the presence of their captors as to allow of a man entering their enclosures to sweep them out; but the boldest keeper in the Queen’s employ will not yet venture to touch such fearful wild fowl.
Not very far from the eagles’ domain, one may perchance see a flock of Canadian wild turkeys. These birds (almost as large as our toothsome Christmas friends) are more wild in name than in nature, for instead of haunting trees and coverts to be shot in the manner of pheasants at the proper season, they at present insist on being domesticated and partaking of the head keeper’s hospitality when the members of his household feed the numerous song-birds which gather around the house for their daily meals.
But we must leave the keeper’s house with its fascinating surroundings and make for our proper destination, which is the aviary at Frogmore.
Over the verdant turf and under the wide-spreading trees, mainly following the private road traversed every day by Her Majesty when residing at Windsor, past the kennels with their noisy occupants, past the lovely fruit and flower gardens, just outside of Frogmore House, and beside the beautiful dairy, stands the object of our walk.
SILVER-PENCILLED HAMBURGH.
Below the level of the road in a gently-sloping grass-grown dell is built the aviary. Originally the site was occupied but by some dilapidated outbuildings. The present construction is entirely due to the designs of the never-forgotten Prince Consort. He it was who saw the capabilities of the site, and with his usual forethought added art to utility.
Although originally designed for the reception of rare and curious birds presented to the Queen, the aviary has for many years past been mainly used as a miniature poultry farm. Now and again may arrive some showy feathered biped from foreign lands to lead a quiet happy life, well tended and cared for; but in the main ducks and chickens, turkeys and pigeons form the bulk of the population. It is a charming, peaceful little scene to gaze upon, this fine summer morning, the fountain and pond with its fat white ducks in the foreground, behind the well-kept terrace with its summer-house at one end, with rustic seat so often occupied by the Royal couple in days gone by, and a background formed by the neat range of brick buildings and spreading trees.
Let us go and interview its keeper. This is a fine stalwart specimen of a retired policeman. Thirty years does Hammond tell us he served in Her Majesty’s household police, and now, in the Indian summer of his days, he quietly lays down the law to turkeys, and takes the smallest of chicks and the most amiable of pigeons into custody. Before the advent of Hammond, the aviary, which was for forty years under feminine supervision, had somewhat declined in usefulness; but, as its new guardian is a practical man as well as a poultry-fancier, the whole of his little domain looks well kept and prosperous.
SILVER-SPANGLED HAMBURGHS.
The eighteen pens with brick roost-houses behind, which form the front of the aviary, are mostly occupied by very fine specimens of domestic poultry, the breed of its occupants being indicated by an enamelled iron label affixed to the front of each pen, every breed being kept absolutely separate.
The breeds of poultry kept are too many to describe here; suffice it to say that Hammond thinks his best birds are white Leghorns and black Minorcas. For laying purposes, he prefers a cross between Leghorn and Plymouth Rock; for winter laying, Plymouth Rocks; and for the table, white Dorkings to his mind bear the palm.
The aviary does not supply all the poultry required for the Castle, the first idea being to keep all its pens well stocked with good handsome birds, and to send the surplus to the Castle kitchens. The eggs, ranging between forty and fifty daily, are sent to Windsor Castle, Buckingham Palace, and Osborne House only, the Queen’s other residences procuring their supplies elsewhere. About one hundred birds are required each year for stocking the pens, the remainder bred going, as I before remarked, for table purposes. Here I may mention that the only fowls served at Her Majesty’s own table are white Dorkings.
“FIELD-MARSHAL,” THE TURKEY.
After acquiring much useful information on poultry farming, I am taken to the rear of the premises, where breeding operations are mostly carried on. Incubators, I am told, are not in use or desired at Windsor. Every convenience is, of course, provided for the sitting hens, but with seemingly a natural perverseness they occasionally prefer the oddest of nests chosen by themselves to the most comfortable ones provided for them. Here, for instance, in a dark corner is a stout foster-mother of a hen bringing up a handsome family of ducklings in a bushel basket. It was noticed that her own eggs were invariably laid in this receptacle, and so when breeding time came the basket was duly filled up for her accommodation.
HAMMOND AND HIS BANTAM “TOBY.”
All chickens for the first three weeks of their lives have the run of the pretty old-fashioned garden attached to Hammond’s cottage; but as soon as that age is attained, over-indulgence in horticultural pursuits compels their removal.
In addition to chickens some fifty to sixty Aylesbury ducks are annually reared and fattened for Castle use. Some of these are now wandering about with happy and contented looks, little recking of the use of those succulent peas shooting up so tall and straight in their keeper’s garden. Here, too, in the yard are a few portly Rouen ducks, the female of which breed some time since distinguished herself by laying an egg five ounces in weight; but, remarks Hammond when relating the incident, “she does not often do it.”
In the four pigeon lofts which surmount the roof of the aviary there live at present some forty pigeons mainly of the “Foreign Owl” and “Jacobin” breeds. The youngsters bred and not required for stock purposes go the way of all pigeons—that which leads to pies. At the aviary are also kept some beautiful white doves purchased abroad by H.R.H. Princess Beatrice.
Next I am shown some representatives of the turkey race. These are of a very handsome race known as the Cinnamon turkey. Their native home in Britain is as far north as Caithness; but it is believed the breed was originally brought from the United States or Canada.
The male bird (some three years of age) is of most imposing presence. His colour is a rich chestnut brown, with a black edge to each feather and white wing flights. As he marches to and fro with slow and stately step over a measured track, his prismatic-hued head and neck, combined with his brown and white uniform, irresistibly remind one of the chief hall porter at some stately hotel or theatre.
He is pleased to express his approval of the appearance of my coadjutor with the camera by giving vent to a series of gobbles which sound like the prelude to a solo on the big drum. He then proceeds to disperse the small crowd of humble feathered admirers who have gathered around him, and poses himself for the coming picture.
Sad to relate though, the sharp click of the rapid shutter of the camera quite destroys his self-possession, and he flies for protection behind an old chicken coop, for ever losing caste in the eyes of a small white bantam looking on, who gives vent to his disgust at this craven conduct by a series of ear-piercing challenges.
Some years since, the Queen possessed a beautiful breed of pure white turkeys. Of these there are not any specimens surviving at Windsor, although, as pairs of the birds were given to the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Connaught, and the late Duke of Albany, it is possible that the breed is not extinct.
And now once more to the front of the aviary. Here are a splendid pair of golden pheasants, the male bird as he darts about in the sunshine looking a perfect vision of beauty. He was reared at Windsor from parents bred at the Zoological Gardens. The eggs of his mate are given to a sedate hen to hatch, for greater safety than they would get in the nest of their somewhat frivolous mother, who in her turn receives those of a bantam to take care of.
In the same pen with the golden pheasants lives a pretty little family of buff and white pied pigeons—the property of the Queen’s Indian Secretary.
Near by one may see a small party of ringdoves assuming the most graceful attitudes as they whisper soft nothings to one another in the bright warm sunshine. These pretty creatures are a living reminder of the innate gallantry of the Irish race. During the Queen’s first progress through Ireland after her marriage, as the Royal carriage was slowly passing through a triumphal arch, a pair of ringdoves were gently lowered almost into Her Majesty’s hands. It is from this pair that the pretty little family before mentioned is descended. The doves are great favourites with the Queen, who always relates the history of their origin with special pleasure.
Before leaving, one must have a glance at the Queen’s room, situated in the centre of the aviary, which remains practically the same in appearance as when first fitted under the superintendence of the Prince Consort. It is a very simple but bright apartment of moderate size, with a big bay window overlooking the terrace and fountain.
The walls are papered with a light chintz pattern, and the furniture is framed in light oak and upholstered with a flower pattern cretonne. The principal ornament of the room is a large case of stuffed birds shot by the late Prince Consort. The case is about six feet in height, and has a rustic oak framework. Its occupants are grouse, black cock, and capercailzie. Carved on the frame of the case is “Taymouth, Sep. 8th and 9th, 1842.” All around the walls of the room are other cases of old favourites which in days gone by adorned the pens of the aviary. There is a splendid pied peacock, Amherst pheasants, Indian pigeons, a bantam formerly belonging to the Prince of Wales, and many others. One should also notice the head and claws of a gigantic emu, who in his lifetime was the proud representative of Australia at Windsor. In the corridor leading from the Queen’s room to the garden stands a group of kangaroo rats, a big bustard, a Muscovy duck, and a splendid peacock, once the property of the Earl of Beaconsfield. This last bird was removed to the aviary from Hughenden shortly after the late Earl’s death.
“THE FOSTER-MOTHER.”
Until the last few years, the aviary was a favourite place for the Royal Family to partake of afternoon tea, and here in the Queen’s room is still kept the neat dark blue-and-white Dresden china service which was in ordinary use by Her Majesty. The Queen still drives round the aviary in her daily visit to Frogmore, but rarely alights from her carriage.
Of Royal and distinguished visitors there are many, but not any so regular or so welcome as the children of H.R.H. Princess Beatrice, who seldom allow a day to pass, when staying at Windsor, without “coming to feed the birds”; and right well do those same birds know and welcome the youthful visitors. From the big turkey to the tiny doves, all are on the alert when the sound of carriage wheels is heard, and a universal chorus of approval bursts from the feathered throats as the Royal party distribute their largesse.
The family of the Duke of Connaught also have a special interest in the aviary in the shape of some dozen or so of long-haired white Canadian guinea-pigs (a present from their aunt, the Princess Louise), which live and flourish under Hammond’s fostering care.
And now old Time is fast a-flying, so one must think of taking leave; but I cannot, without great discourtesy, omit a mention of one of the most important characters on the establishment. This is “Toby,” a tiny white bantam cock with a beautiful rose-coloured comb. Throughout the morning he has carefully followed his master’s footsteps, seemingly under the idea that his protection was necessary from the evil designs of journalists and photographers. Too near an approach to the beloved governor was at once resented, while when a halt was called for descriptive purposes, he would stand patiently by with head on one side, crooning his satisfaction with the explanation, and anon darting a sharp look at the man with the note-book as though he would say, “Now, have you got that down?”
So satisfied with our attention is he that at his master’s desire he proceeds to show us a small specimen of his talents. Standing on the ground, with Hammond’s hands linked together before him, a short run is taken and the hands are neatly jumped five or six times in succession.
Other tricks were to follow, but unfortunately Toby’s father just then appeared from behind a coop, followed by a numerous harem. Something cynical with regard to frivolous amusements was evidently said by the newcomers, for without the slightest warning Toby at once proceeded to assault the man with the camera, and, as the bird must weigh a pound and a half, whereas the artist is not more than thirteen stone, we deemed it prudent to say good-bye, and beat a hasty retreat, followed by triumphant crowing from Toby and his sire, who, by the by, gives himself airs on the strength of being a prize-winner at one of the great Norwich shows.
[HOUSEHOLD HINTS.]
The oven door of a kitchen range should be left open at night to air the oven, unless a cat is left in the kitchen. Cats sometimes get into the oven for warmth if it is left open, and that is not advisable.
Care should be taken when giving fruit to children to remove any pips or core, which might prove dangerous if swallowed.
The hall door of a house should now and then be set wide open to air the passages thoroughly, someone being at hand to see that no one enters unbidden.
A tablespoonful of washing-powder in the hot water in which china and silver are washed is of great value; but the water should be very hot.
In arranging a new house, it is rather a good plan to have distinctive names for the bedrooms, and it is a pretty idea to name them after jewels or flowers, and have the rooms decorated with colours and designs to match, so that there might be the Emerald, Ruby, Turquoise, and Amber rooms, or the Forget-me-not, Rose, and Primrose rooms. The hand-candlesticks, match-box cases, and hot-water cans should be painted to suit each room.
Never use any but the best soap for the face. If this is not obtainable or within reach of your purse, use only a little oatmeal in the water. Common soaps produce blotches and skin irritation, especially those that are highly coloured and scented.
Both woollen and cotton stockings should be mended with silk rather than cotton or wool. It is more comfortable, resists wear and tear longer, and does not easily discolour.
There is scarcely anything more injurious to health and spirits than a damp house. Leave it as soon as possible.
Fur worn round the throat has a certain danger, not only that of making the throat delicate, but also that the fine hairs find their way into the stomach and lungs, and become injurious.
If a kettle or saucepan has to be put away and not used for some time, see that it is quite dry inside, for if put away wet, rust will accumulate and make a hole in the metal.
[SOCIAL INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AN EAST END GIRL.]
By LA PETITE.