CHAPTER XIII
UNDER THE APPLE THEE
I am under the apple tree trying to be busy. In front of me lies a waif and stray garment—a flannel petticoat. There is no house mending to do—everything is new and holeless. Dimbie had a trousseau as well as I. Occasionally he will wear a small hole in one of his socks, the mending of which will take me half an hour, then my work is finished. So I have taken to waif and stray garments and deep-sea fishermen's knitting in self-defence.
Were I not engaged on this I should be making wool-work mats like the old men in the workhouse—I can see it in the tail of Amelia's eye; so I keep a garment well to the front, ready to pick up at the sound of her first footstep, which, being squeaky, fortunately warns me of the advance of the enemy.
Now but for Amelia I should be only too content to laze through the summer—just staring at the sky and the soft, white, fleecy clouds through the breaks in the foliage of the apple tree; for though I do nothing I am tired, always tired. Perhaps it is the warmth of the summer, for the rain and cold are gone. By and by I am going to be very energetic, and do little things for Amelia, whether she considers it helpful or otherwise. I shall peel apples in the autumn when the weather is cooler, and stone the plums for jam, and skin the mushrooms. But now I want to be idle. I just want to watch the bird and insect life of the garden.
Much to my delight, a colony of ants has settled at the base of the apple tree. I get Amelia to wheel the couch close to their head-quarters, and I lean over and gently drop little things in front of the openings to their tunnels. Sometimes a tiny bit of twig lies across their front door, or a cherry-stone bars the cellar entrance; and then what excitement and confusion reign, what a twinkling of a myriad tiny legs! Nine strong, able-bodied men are requisitioned to tackle the cherry-stone. I smile and chuckle as I picture one excited ant—who is not eager to tell the news?—rushing off to inform the others that he has discovered a thunderbolt lying at their cellar-door, and they must marshal their forces for an attack. And then what a straining and pushing and levering there is! First six men arrive; they look like policemen. Presently one rushes away and brings back three more. They then sort of take their bearings, trotting in and out of the front door and eyeing with indignation the obstacle that lies in their path.
"Hurrah!" I cry as they lever the cherry-stone the fraction of an inch; and Amelia, appearing at the front door, says—
"I beg your pardon, mum."
Amelia certainly has a most tiresome habit of cropping up at the tense moments of life. Should I call, gently at first, "A-me-li-a," and then louder, "A-ME-LI-A!" and then in stentorian tones, "A-ME-LI-A!" finally degenerating into cat-calls and war-whoops, she wouldn't dream of hearing me; but when I apostrophise the thrush which comes to sing in the apple tree of an evening, or encourage the ants in their labours, or laugh at the ridiculous wagtails bobbing up and down the lawn, she appears suddenly and stands and stares at me.
Just now I said, "You shouldn't stare at me"; and when she replied, "You're so pretty, mum," I felt hers was the gentleness of the dove and the cunning of the serpent combined.