godlessness, judging by the number of earnest souls who present themselves at our doorsteps! Nothing puts me into a more unchristian state of mind than these unsolicited visitors, and yet I haven't the heart to tell them not to come again.
While I was regaining my composure over the tea-tray I noticed with horror that the tract was priced at sixpence. I could only hope that my cavalier and grasping behaviour would discourage further attentions; but, on the other hand, would not have been surprised to hear the stranger returning to demand his payment.
I was very glad indeed to climb into the sanctuary of my bed, and shelve life for nine hours.
The postponed tea-party at the Vicarage has taken place and I have at last met John Parr's tenant, about whom I have heard so much.
His name is Henry Mawne—'"H. A. Mawne,"' the vicar enlarged, and smiled hopefully at me. Seeing that I was still unenlightened, he added, 'Of the Caxley Chronicle; and I remembered then that the Nature Notes have appeared recently over this name. I told Mr Mawne that I cut his notes out and put them up in the classroom for the children to read, and he was obviously delighted.
He is tall and very thin, and seems a pleasant, unassuming man. Since his retirement he has spent most of his time fishing and bird-watching, and is collecting material for a book about downland birds. He seems very well able to look after himself, and will no doubt continue to do so, despite village gossip to the contrary.
'What I particularly like about Fairacre people,' he said to the vicar, 'is their acceptance of a newcomer without a lot of unnecessary comment. I've found everyone so friendly, but not a bit inquisitive.'
I could not help feeling that Mr Mawne's ear must have been singularly far from Fairacre's bush telegraph, which has fairly hummed with such pertinent questions as:
Is Mr M. a widower? If so, what did his wife die of? And when? Is he a bachelor? How old is he? Who will he marry? And when? How much would his pension be from teaching? Would he have an old-age pension as well? How long has he known Mr Parr? What does he do with those field-glasses? Why is he always 'skulking about up the downs'? And much more, to the same effect.
He was very interested in the village school, and asked if he might call in to see the children. I said that we should love to see him, and if he would like to give us a nature talk sometime, we should look forward to it immensely. It is good for our Fairacre children to hear someone else speaking in their classroom—heaven knows they have little enough variety. It is equally good for me to sit back and see a lesson taken by an expert in his subject.
At six o'clock Mrs Partridge took me upstairs to her bedroom for my coat. There is a wonderful view from the windows there, of the gentle swell of the downs beyond and the wooded hollow where Fairacre shelters. The spire of St Patrick's dominates the foreground, with the stubby little bell-tower of my school thrusting bravely up beside it.
On the bedside table lay a red leather-bound copy of the Bible and a photograph of an elderly man, with a mop of white hair, who smiled vaguely from his silver frame.
'Gerald's father,' said Mrs Partridge following my gaze, 'Gerald always says "He was a saint—if only I could do half as well!"'
The thought of our good vicar, whose life is as blameless as is humanly possible, sorrowing for his shortcomings, made me wonder in what adverse light my own behaviour is thrown. I looked back, in that one swift moment, on innumerable child-slappings, hard words, black thoughts and a thousand back-slidings, and went downstairs in a sober mood.
Mr Mawne was examining a light horse-whip on the had wall.
'My father used one like that on us on special occasions,' he said cheerfully.
'Really?' answered the vicar. 'Now, my father always shut us up in a dark cupboard under the stairs—'
I decided that values are strictly relative, and felt much more
While I was regaining my composure over the tea-tray I noticed with horror that the tract was priced at sixpence. I could only hope that my cavalier and grasping behaviour would discourage further attentions; but, on the other hand, would not have been surprised to hear the stranger returning to demand his payment.
I was very glad indeed to climb into the sanctuary of my bed, and shelve life for nine hours.
The postponed tea-party at the Vicarage has taken place and I have at last met John Parr's tenant, about whom I have heard so much.
His name is Henry Mawne—'"H. A. Mawne,"' the vicar enlarged, and smiled hopefully at me. Seeing that I was still unenlightened, he added, 'Of the Caxley Chronicle; and I remembered then that the Nature Notes have appeared recently over this name. I told Mr Mawne that I cut his notes out and put them up in the classroom for the children to read, and he was obviously delighted.
He is tall and very thin, and seems a pleasant, unassuming man. Since his retirement he has spent most of his time fishing and bird-watching, and is collecting material for a book about downland birds. He seems very well able to look after himself, and will no doubt continue to do so, despite village gossip to the contrary.
'What I particularly like about Fairacre people,' he said to the vicar, 'is their acceptance of a newcomer without a lot of unnecessary comment. I've found everyone so friendly, but not a bit inquisitive.'
I could not help feeling that Mr Mawne's ear must have been singularly far from Fairacre's bush telegraph, which has fairly hummed with such pertinent questions as:
Is Mr M. a widower? If so, what did his wife die of? And when? Is he a bachelor? How old is he? Who will he marry? And when? How much would his pension be from teaching? Would he have an old-age pension as well? How long has he known Mr Parr? What does he do with those field-glasses? Why is he always 'skulking about up the downs'? And much more, to the same effect.
He was very interested in the village school, and asked if he might call in to see the children. I said that we should love to see him, and if he would like to give us a nature talk sometime, we should look forward to it immensely. It is good for our Fairacre children to hear someone else speaking in their classroom—heaven knows they have little enough variety. It is equally good for me to sit back and see a lesson taken by an expert in his subject.
At six o'clock Mrs Partridge took me upstairs to her bedroom for my coat. There is a wonderful view from the windows there, of the gentle swell of the downs beyond and the wooded hollow where Fairacre shelters. The spire of St Patrick's dominates the foreground, with the stubby little bell-tower of my school thrusting bravely up beside it.
On the bedside table lay a red leather-bound copy of the Bible and a photograph of an elderly man, with a mop of white hair, who smiled vaguely from his silver frame.
'Gerald's father,' said Mrs Partridge following my gaze, 'Gerald always says "He was a saint—if only I could do half as well!"'
The thought of our good vicar, whose life is as blameless as is humanly possible, sorrowing for his shortcomings, made me wonder in what adverse light my own behaviour is thrown. I looked back, in that one swift moment, on innumerable child-slappings, hard words, black thoughts and a thousand back-slidings, and went downstairs in a sober mood.
Mr Mawne was examining a light horse-whip on the had wall.
'My father used one like that on us on special occasions,' he said cheerfully.
'Really?' answered the vicar. 'Now, my father always shut us up in a dark cupboard under the stairs—'
I decided that values are strictly relative, and felt much more
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