The Worn Doorstep

by Margaret Pollock Sherwood

"Day by day we hear of recruits going by hundreds to the recruiting stations——"

"I'm not denying that they may be making up the army, 'm, and that there may be war some day; but that a war is on, I deny, 'm."

So this is what happens when the British lower classes begin to think! There really ought to be some better way of bridging the gulf between their old, automatic habits and the new working of their minds.

"They are carrying soldiers across the Channel by thousands," I say indignantly.

"All bunkum, if you'll kindly excuse the word, Miss. Did Robinson Crusoe really happen? We 'ear of these things going on, but do you know of anybody who has actually been killed, 'm?" asks Peter.

I looked at him, but I could not speak. Where are you lying, dear, in that awful field of death?

October 11. I was pruning and tying up rose vines, by my wrought-iron gate that stands ajar, when I heard a noise,—first, a skurrying of feet, and a shout, then a rush of something small and swift. The tiniest grey kitten imaginable had dashed in through the opening and was trembling in a corner under my rosebush. I picked it up and went quickly to the gate; there was a red-faced urchin waiting, his mouth open, a stone in one hand ready to throw at the kitten if it came out, but shy of entering,—the British respect for a gate! Neither my pleas nor my scolding brought a shade of expression to his face; it was as guileless, as soulless, as a jack-o'-lantern. I give the boy tuppence, and tell him to go away, and to be kind to animals; the kitten curls itself about my neck and purrs, as I work in the earth. Of course I shall keep it; I am glad that the latch will not hold, and I shall not even try to have it repaired. Perhaps my garden may serve as a refuge for small hunted things, suffering things. I might have a ring put on my gate; you remember the ring upon the cathedral door at Durham to which a fugitive could cling? All the village criminals—I wonder who the village criminals are? Probably the ones who look least so!—could cling to it, and Peter could rescue them, and Madge and I could give them tea.

And now to help on the millennium a bit by establishing an intimacy between the refugee kitten and snobbish little Don. In his heart I think he wants to make friends; but when a common kitten, with no pedigree and no Oxford training, spits at him, what is he to do? He looks piteously at me as I bid him be gentle; sniffs in half friendly fashion, and keeps his delicate nose well away from the claws. Meanwhile, how can I teach the kitten noblesse oblige? I shall name it the Atom, because, it being (so much of the time) invisible, like the scientists I am unable to tell whether or not it exists; and because at moments it seems only a "mode of motion."

Not long after came a little squeal, as of a tiny pig; my flower beds! I hurry down; the gate is farther open, and there is a huge baby, a gingerbread baby,—no, it is alive, but it has the shape of gingerbread babies in the shops, and it has the motions of a gingerbread baby,—not a joint in its body; "moving all together if it move at all." Its round blue eyes, its round red mouth look frightened in Don's presence and mine; then, with another little squeal, it flings itself upon Don, who draws away, looks at me inquiringly, with that questioning paw uplifted, shivering a little, all his class-consciousness astir: must he make friends with this?

It is a solid British lump, but friendly beyond belief. In feeling that it would further the entente cordiale between the two peoples, I find myself making a playhouse, with tiny pebbles. The infant Briton is not so phlegmatic, after all; it shouts with delight, flings itself upon my knees, and embraces them so suddenly and so lustily that I nearly fall over…. I must find out its name and send to London for a Teddy bear and some toys. My gate is wide open, ever since Peter started to escort home my uninvited guest….