Of two evils choose the least—a make-shift maxim, but sound in its way!
Very few dwellers in the South and West of England are aware of the extraordinary interest taken in the Midlands and the North in pigeon-flying. This is a good and fascinating pastime. It certainly interests me, and there is something very stimulating to the imagination in it. The careful breeding of strong-pinioned birds, the training of them, the vast distances they cover under changing skies and down the long invisible slants of the wind—it has an appeal, has it not? Certainly it requires real knowledge and care.
I don’t suppose that there is any minor sport so utterly spoilt and degraded by gambling as this sport is.
They tell a good story in the North which epitomizes the whole thing. It is a reprobate yarn, but it is funny.... An old pitman lay a-dying. He had been a worthy fellow, a very well-known breeder and flyer of pigeons, and his only fault had been that he wagered what, to him, were reckless sums upon the results of pigeon-flying matches.
He lay dying, and the Vicar of the parish sat by his bedside and tried to ease the fear of passing from one life to another by telling the man of what might well await him in the next world.
...“Did thee say as I should be a gradely angel, parson?” the old fellow said.
“You’ve lived a straight life, John.”
“Angels ‘as wings, don’t they?”
“The poets and painters have always imagined so, John.”
“Well, I’m goin’ first, and I’m reet sorry to say good-bye to thee, Vicar. But I make no doubt thee’ll be up there soon theeself. Now I’ll tell thee what I’ll do when thee arrives. I’ll fly thee for a quid!”