He would lie "dead," flat on his back, with his blue eyelids drawn up over his eyes; remaining motionless for any length of time we chose, and waiting for the word of command, when he would scramble to his feet in a great hurry, with a self-satisfied croak at his own cleverness. He would hang by his bill from one of our fingers, which he had swallowed to its point of junction with the hand; and, with his wings drooping, and his legs hanging straight down in a limp and helpless manner, looking altogether a most strange and grotesque object, would allow us to carry him about wherever we liked. A little string of dark red beads, brought from Jerusalem, would always throw him into a perfect frenzy of real or pretended fright—probably the latter; and if they were put anywhere near him, or, worse still, flung across his back, he at once commenced a series of startling antics, jumping and hopping about as if possessed, and uttering very uncanny sounds.
As the time for our return to England drew near, we made up our minds that we could not leave Bobby behind—he must be one of the little party of friendly animals which were to accompany us home; and we were already discussing in what kind of cage or box he should travel, wondering how he would like being enclosed in so small a space, and how he would behave at sea: friends in England had promised him a welcome, and were looking forward to seeing him—when, after all, we had to part with him. Just three weeks before we sailed poor old Bobby was suddenly paralyzed, and died in a few hours. We never knew what caused his death: whether his unconquerable curiosity had led him to eat something poisonous; whether the enforced sedentary life he had led for so many weeks together had undermined his constitution; or whether occasional dead snakes, and the contents of the mouse-traps, which during his detention were always contributed in hope of partially satisfying his large appetite, were perhaps unwholesome diet, and shortened his days, we cannot tell. But Bobby was sadly missed; and we still regret that brightest and most comical of all our pets.
Some will perhaps say, "What foolish people these must have been, to tolerate a black imp of mischief who destroyed their vegetables, ate their eggs, killed their chickens, did his best to pull down their house, and whose neck ought to have been wrung!" But, just as among the human race those characters we love best are not always the most faultless, so poor Bobby, full of imperfections as he was—far from honest, not always sober, and with that terrible bent for mischief making him so often a nuisance—yet possessed so many lovable qualities that his failings were redeemed; and he lives in our recollection as one of the kindest and most faithful of all our South African friends. We could have better spared a better bird.
CHAPTER X.
OUR SERVANTS.
A retrospective vision — Phillis in her domain — Her destructiveness — Her ideas on personal adornment — The woes of a mistress — Eye-service — Abrupt departure of Phillis — Left in the lurch — Nancy and her successors — Cure of sham sickness — The thief's dose — Our ostrich-herd — A bride purchased with cows — English and natives at the Cape — Character of Zulus and Kaffirs.
"Man's work is from sun to sun,
But woman's work is never done."
It is always amusing, for those who have tried housekeeping in South Africa, to hear people in England talk of their "bad" servants. Ladies—who, after the short quarter of an hour devoted to interviewing the cook and giving the day's orders, need trouble themselves no more throughout the twenty-four hours as to the carrying out of those orders, but are free to pursue their own occupations, uninterrupted by a constant need of superintending those of their domestics,—sit in their beautifully-kept drawing-rooms or at their well-appointed dining-tables,—whose spotless linen and bright glass and silver are so delicious a novelty to eyes long accustomed to the Karroo's rough-and-ready backwoods style,—and, much to your surprise, complain bitterly of the unsatisfactory parlour-maid, or are pathetic over the iniquities of the cook who has just sent up a faultless little dinner. When any one, thus blissfully unconscious of what a really bad servant is, appeals to the lady colonist for sympathy, the unfeeling reply of the latter not unfrequently is: "You should try South African servants!" And instantly, before the mind's eye of that lady colonist, there arises a retrospective vision of the average "coloured help" of Cape farms; that yellow Hottentot or dark-skinned Kaffir, attired in a scanty and ragged cotton dress; her woolly head surmounted by a battered and not always over-clean kappje (sun-bonnet), or tied up in a red and yellow handkerchief of the loudest pattern, twisted into an ugly little tight turban. She stands, in the bright morning sunshine, against a background of dirty dishes and uncleaned saucepans, left neglected since last evening's meal; and of the comfort and advantage to herself of cleaning which before the adhering remnants of contents have dried and hardened it is absolutely impossible to convince her. Dogs, fowls, turkeys, and little pigs, in company with all the pet animals of the family and an occasional young ostrich, are kindly acting the part of scavengers on her unswept kitchen floor; where they are habitués, her wastefulness and untidiness affording them so good a living that they have grown bold, and, refusing to get out of your way, get under your feet and trip you up at every turn if you are rash enough to enter the dirty domain of their protectress. The latter, like some malevolent goddess, is surrounded by an atmosphere of most evil-smelling fumes, prominent among which is the paraffin with which, to save herself trouble, she liberally feeds the fire every time it becomes low; while the dense smoke and steam arising from several pots and saucepans on the stove proclaim the contents to be in various stages of burning,—the climax being reached by what was once the soup, but of which nothing now remains but a few dried and charred fragments of bone, tightly adhering to an utterly ruined pot—new last week. In answer to all expostulation the doer of the mischief has no word of regret or apology, but, taking the occurrence as a matter of course, shows all her even white teeth in a bright, good-tempered smile, as she says, "Yes, missis, de soup is burnt."
Then still more horrible whiffs assail you, viz., the combined odours of the various articles of food which she has put away, carefully covered up in jars and tins, where she has forgotten them; and where, in the close atmosphere of her stuffy kitchen, with the thermometer at 100°, they have promptly gone bad. She has no "nose"; and, though her kitchen may be pervaded with odours which knock you down, she remains smiling and contented, and needs to be informed of the fact that there is a bad smell before she will set to work—with great surprise—to hunt out the cause of it; too often revealing sights which make you shudder.