CHAPTER II
Another Second Son
I strolled down the avenue, between the tall trees and on to the broad, sun-baked roadway leading to the sleepy little village of Brammerton, which lay so snugly down in the hollow. Swinging my stout stick and whistling as I went, I felt at peace with the good old world. My head was clear, my arm was strong; rich, fresh blood was dancing in my veins; I was young, single, free;—so what cared I?
As I walked along, I saw ahead of me a thin line of blue-grey smoke curling up from the roadside. As I drew nearer, I made out the back of a ragged man, leaning over a fire. His voice, lusty and clear as a bell, was ringing out a strange melody. I went over to him.
I was looking over his shoulder, yet he seemed not to have heard me, so intent was he on his song and in his work.
He was toasting the carcass of a poached rabbit, the wet skin of which lay at his side. He was a dirty, ragged rascal, but he seemed happy and his voice was good. The sentiment of his song was not altogether out of harmony with my own feelings.
"A carter swore he'd love always
A skirt, some rouge, a pair of stays.
After his vow, for days and days,
He thought himself the smarter."
The singer bit a piece of flesh from the leg of his rabbit, to test its tenderness, then he resumed his toasting and his song.
"But, underneath the stays and paint
He found the usual male complaint:
A woman's tongue, with Satan's taint;
A squalling, brawling tartar.
"She scratches, bites and blacks his eye.
His head hangs low; he heaves a sigh;
He longs for single days, gone by.
He's doomed to die a martyr."