An extraordinary stage. Let us look at it more closely. I can promise you no set drama, but great entertainment if you are the sort of fellow to enjoy sitting on a bit of a hill above a winding river in the country—with a pipe and some field-glasses wherewith to watch the affairs of the world around you. No man-made drama, no plot, no prompter, and not a cue. The players stray on to and off the stage, and suggestion can do lots.
In the fowlyard below two cocks have renewed their battle for the right to crow last. "Seems so," says Sir Pompous beneath my window, as he watches them intently. The youngest pullet, coy and not uncoquettish, withdraws from the scene of combat to arrange her feathers in the far corner. She, in any case, will have to abide by the decision of the contest.
Cynically the old hens condescend to a dull interest only, contrasting this sorry affair with the strenuous and gory combats that waged over them in their day, when their hearts, too, were young. Love's young dream long since awakened to matter of factness and steady routine. But for an example of love still dreaming observe the cocks themselves—the younger lamenting his lack of experience, but game; the elder no doubt regretting that his Virgil is not at hand to adorn further Georgics with the account of his strenuous endeavours—to point anew that old moral in the Battle of the Bulls.
A mate has joined the chirruping wagtail with many a ship and twist of her small head. The cock-bird, prepared to earn his amours, indulges in risky flights round the twigs and back again, landing suddenly beside her with a little joyful chirp. "In the spring a brighter crimson comes upon the robin's breast—in the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest."
"The call of Spring," as Pacific Roller says in another column, "announcing that the season of love is at hand and inviting youth to put on his gayest apparel."
There has just appeared in the foreground of our stage the wee bear Alphonse, delightful little fellow except when he makes that awful noise—and why shouldn't he? 'Tis time, he thinks, that he was on the warpath alongside his dam, for it grows dark and the call of the wild rings out for him in clarion notes, challenging him to fulfil his destiny. Manfully the little fellow is trying to do so, roaring lustily and making commendable attempts to stand on his hind legs and reach a bough. As he thrusts his way through some débris I can see his woodcraft is coming on apace.
The first drops of rain are falling, and as they swish on to him his wee heart, I've no doubt, throbs restlessly for freedom once again. Freedom. Poor little lad, I sympathize with him. Different from the cocks or the wagtail he, if he could speak, would agree with me on this point at least. But one thing he doesn't know, and that is the future, nor how close the hand of Fate is to him even now. For it is as good as decided to poison him for being in disposition incompatible with all of us—to wit, that he is a bear and roars. As a matter of fact, five grains of strychnine were given to him last night and he survived.
And what could augur better for the normality of the Knights of the Oblong Table than to say that some cheered and all felt glad when, to-day, we saw Alphonse still going strong, apparently overdosed. The iron of Kastamuni, that rumour says has entered into more than one soul (and rusted, too, withal in others), cannot have bitten so very deep into King Arthur's Knights. And Alphonse the bear, innocent of our design or of the attitude of Destiny, stands on his hind legs like a wee man and chuckles. Is all this drama a tragedy, or comedy, or what?
Please note there has been a duel over an affaire de cœur, a love episode, a captive, with a great Fate of uncertain mood flinging a dark shadow at the end....
Past the column of grey smoke thickly climbing through the raining mist, a black speck moves down a white path. It is a labourer returning from his fields beyond the town. To the west is the smothered glow of the setting sun. In the central background of the stage above the high lights, observe a wee, grey coil of smoke twisting upwards from the shining speck in the gully. I know the hut well, although never has it appeared larger than the tiniest button. There is a romance of an old man and woman, a son at the war, and a pretty girl within, if you look closely!! Behind the house a long track winds uphill to the pass. But the last light has left the hills and I see only the dark patches of forest. Look carefully, and, if I mistake not, you will see an advancing pair of darkly burning orbs. They are the eyes of another Alphonse, luckier, let us believe, on the warpath, traversing his domains, the dusky fastnesses of the wild glens....