“Préservez moi, Seigneur, préservez ceux que j’aime,
Frères, parents, amis, et mes ennemis mêmes,
Dans le mal triomphants,
De jamais voir, Seigneur, la ruche sans abeilles
La printemps sans oiseau, l’été sans fleurs vermeilles ...
La maison sans enfants!”
Substitute “jardin” for “printemps” and you have our views. We have no children in this house, worse luck ... except the fur ones.
CONCERNING CALIBAN
Caliban, the garden man, has again broken his “pledge,” a little quicker than usual this time, and we fear we must be firm and keep to our last ultimatum—that unless he takes it afresh he will have to go. Caliban always reminds us of a prehistoric man. Whenever one meets him he looks exactly as if he had just reared himself upright from running on all fours, and would drop down again immediately as soon as we are out of sight. He has an excellent hard-working wife, and works very well himself—until the last pledge has quite worn away. We are sorry for Mrs. Caliban, the mother of three prehistoric babies: for we hear that Caliban, in the philosophic language of the district, “knocks her about a bit,” when he has had what he calls “his glass of beer.”—“You couldn’t wish for a nicer husband, when he’s sober,” she vows, poor woman, and is pathetically hopeful every time the oath of abstinence is administered! It is dreadful how many bad husbands there are in this small district. In another family the father is so well known that the mere mention of his name is enough to stiffen the employer of labour.