Scenes stand out to me from those school-time years.
Chiefly in summer. The summer holidays were longer—and the summer days at Yearsly were lovelier than anywhere else.
The sound of the mowing machine in the clear mornings; haymaking along the grass hill below the wood;—tossing the hay and playing in it; romping in the little ‘pikes’ of hay with the dogs. One hot afternoon in particular—it must have been late in August, for they were cutting the corn in the field beyond the willows—paddling in the stream while Guy fished.
Then there were agricultural shows; one in particular I remember, when Guy rode his pony in a jumping competition and won the second prize.
That must have been September, for the corn was cut in nearly all the fields. We drove, Hugo and I, with Cousin Delia in the dog-cart. Guy had ridden over earlier with Cousin John. It was at Shelbury, nearly nine miles away, and we had tea in a tent at the show, and wandered round the field and looked at the horses and the cows—Cousin John was showing his Jersey cows—and flowers in a big marquee and cheeses and butter and eggs. There was the noise of the farmers talking, and the soft stamping noise of the horses, and lowing of cows, and the hot strong sunlight over everything; and then the excitement when Guy’s competition came on. He had a grey pony called Griselda, and he rode very well. Hugo and I were breathless with anxiety when it touched the bar once and knocked it down. But there were two chances, and the second time he cleared it. When he rode up to us afterwards with his blue badge we were desperately proud of him, and some of the farmers came and congratulated him, for the boy who won the first prize was much older than Guy, and they were very close.
Afterwards we drove back in the cool of the evening, and all along the road there were people coming away from the show, and cattle and horses, and carts, and some called out good night to us as we passed, and we felt how nice they all were; and when we had turned off the main road on our way to Yearsly, the horses’ hooves sounded on the road in the stillness, and we heard the rooks cawing over the trees in the High Wood, and saw them wheeling in great circles, getting ready for bed; and we saw the smoke going up very straight into the sky before we could see the house; and we were very happy.
Walter laughed at me when I first told him that I liked agricultural shows. He thought I was joking. It seemed to him, he said, an impossible thing to like. But I do and always have. We went to them often at Yearsly.
Guy was in the first eleven at Winchester. He sang and he danced, and he rode, and he shot, and he fished, and he played tennis—all well. Hugo and I did most of these things too, but not as Guy did. It seemed at that time that there was nothing Guy could not do. He was handsome too, not taller than Hugo, but much stronger and browner, and he held himself better, and walked as though the earth belonged to him. His eyes were grey—very merry eyes—and his hair bright brown. Every one loved Guy. Hugo worshipped him.
He said:
“There is no one in the world like Guy. He can do everything.”