EVERGREENS By Jerome K. Jerome They look so dull and dowdy in the spring weather, when the snow dropsand the crocuses are putting on their dainty frocks of white and mauveand yellow, and the baby-buds from every branch are peeping with brighteyes out on the world, and stretching forth soft little leaves towardthe coming gladness of their lives. They stand apart, so cold and hardamid the stirring hope and joy that are throbbing all around them. And in the deep full summer-time, when all the rest of nature dons itsrichest garb of green, and the roses clamber round the porch, andthe grass waves waist-high in the meadow, and the fields are gay withflowers--they seem duller and dowdier than ever then, wearing theirfaded winter's dress, looking so dingy and old and worn. In the mellow days of autumn, when the trees, like dames no longeryoung, seek to forget their aged looks under gorgeous bright-toned robesof gold and brown and purple, and the grain is yellow in the fields, and the ruddy fruit hangs clustering from the drooping boughs, and thewooded hills in their thousand hues stretched like leafy rainbows abovethe vale--ah! surely they look their dullest and dowdiest then. Thegathered glory of the dying year is all around them. They seem so out ofplace among it, in their somber, everlasting green, like poor relationsat a rich man's feast. It is such a weather-beaten old green dress. Somany summers' suns have blistered it, so many winters' rains have beatupon it--such a shabby, mean, old dress; it is the only one they have! They do not look quite so bad when the weary winter weather is come, when the flowers are dead, and the hedgerows are bare, and the treesstand out leafless against the gray sky, and the birds are all silent, and the fields are brown, and the vine clings round the cottages withskinny, fleshless arms, and they alone of all things are unchanged, theyalone of all the forest are green, they alone of all the verdant hoststand firm to front the cruel winter. They are not very beautiful, only strong and stanch and steadfast--thesame in all times, through all seasons--ever the same, ever green. Thespring cannot brighten them, the summer cannot scorch them, the autumncannot wither them, the winter cannot kill them. There are evergreen men and women in the world, praise be to God! Notmany of them, but a few. They are not the showy folk; they are not theclever, attractive folk. (Nature is an old-fashioned shopkeeper; shenever puts her best goods in the window. ) They are only the quiet, strong folk; they are stronger than the world, stronger than life ordeath, stronger than Fate. The storms of life sweep over them, and therains beat down upon them, and the biting frosts creep round them; butthe winds and the rains and the frosts pass away, and they are stillstanding, green and straight. They love the sunshine of life in theirundemonstrative way--its pleasures, its joys. But calamity cannot bowthem, sorrow and affliction bring not despair to their serene faces, only a little tightening of the lips; the sun of our prosperity makesthe green of their friendship no brighter, the frost of our adversitykills not the leaves of their affection. Let us lay hold of such men and women; let us grapple them to us withhooks of steel; let us cling to them as we would to rocks in a tossingsea. We do not think very much of them in the summertime of life. Theydo not flatter us or gush over us. They do not always agree with us. They are not always the most delightful society, by any means. They arenot good talkers, nor--which would do just as well, perhaps better--dothey make enraptured listeners. They have awkward manners, and verylittle tact. They do not shine to advantage beside our society friends. They do not dress well; they look altogether somewhat dowdy andcommonplace. We almost hope they will not see us when we meet themjust outside the club. They are not the sort of people we want toostentatiously greet in crowded places. It is not till the days of ourneed that we learn to love and know them. It is not till the winter thatthe birds see the wisdom of building their nests in the evergreen trees. And we, in our spring-time folly of youth, pass them by with a sneer, the uninteresting, colorless evergreens, and, like silly children withnothing but eyes in their heads, stretch out our hands and cry for thepretty flowers. We will make our little garden of life such a charming, fairy-like spot, the envy of every passer-by! There shall nothing growin it but lilies and roses, and the cottage we will cover all over withVirginia-creeper. And, oh, how sweet it will look, under the dancingsummer sun-light, when the soft west breeze is blowing! And, oh, how we shall stand and shiver there when the rain and the eastwind come! Oh, you foolish, foolish little maidens, with your dainty heads so fullof unwisdom! how often--oh! how often, are you to be warned that it isnot always the sweetest thing in lovers that is the best material tomake a good-wearing husband out of? "The lover sighing like a furnace"will not go on sighing like a furnace forever. That furnace will go out. He will become the husband, "full of strange oaths--jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, " and grow "into the lean and slipper'dpantaloon. " How will he wear? There will be no changing him if he doesnot suit, no sending him back to be altered, no having him let out a bitwhere he is too tight and hurts you, no having him taken in where he istoo loose, no laying him by when the cold comes, to wrap yourself up insomething warmer. As he is when you select him, so he will have to lastyou all your life--through all changes, through all seasons. Yes, he looks very pretty now--handsome pattern, if the colors are fastand it does not fade--feels soft and warm to the touch. How will hestand the world's rough weather? How will he stand life's wear and tear? He looks so manly and brave. His hair curls so divinely. He dresses sowell (I wonder if the tailor's bill is paid?) He kisses your hand sogracefully. He calls you such pretty names. His arm feels so strong around you. His fine eyes are so full of tenderness as they gaze downinto yours. Will he kiss your hand when it is wrinkled and old? Will he call youpretty names when the baby is crying in the night, and you cannot keepit quiet--or, better still, will he sit up and take a turn with it? Willhis arm be strong around you in the days of trouble? Will his eyes shineabove you full of tenderness when yours are growing dim? And you boys, you silly boys! what materials for a wife do you think youwill get out of the empty-headed coquettes you are raving and tearingyour hair about. Oh! yes, she is very handsome, and she dresses withexquisite taste (the result of devoting the whole of her heart, mind andsoul to the subject, and never allowing her thoughts to be distractedfrom it by any other mundane or celestial object whatsoever); and sheis very agreeable and entertaining and fascinating; and she will goon looking handsome, and dressing exquisitely, and being agreeable andentertaining and fascinating just as much after you have married her asbefore--more so, if anything. But _you_ will not get the benefit of it. Husbands will be charmed andfascinated by her in plenty, but _you_ will not be among them. Youwill run the show, you will pay all the expenses, do all the work. Yourperforming lady will be most affable and enchanting to the crowd. Theywill stare at her, and admire her, and talk to her, and flirt with her. And you will be able to feel that you are quite a benefactor to yourfellow-men and women--to your fellow-men especially--in providing suchdelightful amusement for them, free. But _you_ will not get any of thefun yourself. You will not get the handsome looks. _You_ will get the jaded face, andthe dull, lusterless eyes, and the untidy hair with the dye showing onit. You will not get the exquisite dresses. _You_ will get dirty, shabby frocks and slommicking dressing-gowns, such as your cook wouldbe ashamed to wear. _You_ will not get the charm and fascination. _You_will get the after-headaches, the complainings and grumblings, thesilence and sulkiness, the weariness and lassitude and ill-temper thatcomes as such a relief after working hard all day at being pleasant! It is not the people who shine in society, but the people who brightenup the back parlor; not the people who are charming when they are out, but the people who are charming when they are in, that are good to_live_ with. It is not the brilliant men and women, but the simple, strong, restful men and women, that make the best traveling companionsfor the road of life. The men and women who will only laugh as theyput up the umbrella when the rain begins to fall, who will trudge alongcheerfully through the mud and over the stony places--the comrades whowill lay their firm hand on ours and strengthen us when the way is darkand we are growing weak--the evergreen men and women, who, likethe holly, are at their brightest and best when the blast blowschilliest--the stanch men and women! It is a grand thing this stanchness. It is the difference between a dogand a sheep--between a man and an oyster. Women, as a rule, are stancher than men. There are women that you feelyou could rely upon to the death. But very few men indeed have thisdog-like virtue. Men, taking them generally, are more like cats. You maylive with them and call them yours for twenty years, but you can neverfeel _quite_ sure of them. You never know exactly what they are thinkingof. You never feel easy in your mind as to the result of the next-doorneighbor's laying down a Brussels carpet in his kitchen. We have no school for the turning-out of stanch men in this nineteenthcentury. In the old, earnest times, war made men stanch and true to eachother. We have learned up a good many glib phrases about the wickednessof war, and we thank God that we live in these peaceful, trading times, wherein we can--and do--devote the whole of our thoughts and energies torobbing and cheating and swindling one another--to "doing" our friends, and overcoming our enemies by trickery and lies--wherein, undisturbed bythe wicked ways of fighting-men, we can cultivate to better perfectionthe "smartness, " the craft, and the cunning, and all the other"business-like" virtues on which we so pride ourselves, and which wereso neglected and treated with so little respect in the bad old age ofviolence, when men chose lions and eagles for their symbols rather thanfoxes. There is a good deal to be said against war. I am not prepared tomaintain that war did not bring with it disadvantages, but there can beno doubt that, for the noblest work of Nature--the making of men--itwas a splendid manufactory. It taught men courage. It trained them inpromptness and determination, in strength of brain and strength of hand. From its stern lessons they learned fortitude in suffering, coolness indanger, cheerfulness under reverses. Chivalry, Reverence, and Loyaltyare the beautiful children of ugly War. But, above all gifts, thegreatest gift it gave to men was stanchness. It first taught men to be true to one another; to be true to their duty, true to their post; to be in all things faithful, even unto death. The martyrs that died at the stake; the explorers that fought withNature and opened up the world for us; the reformers (they had to dosomething more than talk in those days) who won for us our liberties;the men who gave their lives to science and art, when science and artbrought, not as now, fame and fortune, but shame and penury--theysprang from the loins of the rugged men who had learned, on many a grimbattlefield, to laugh at pain and death, who had had it hammered intothem, with many a hard blow, that the whole duty of a man in this worldis to be true to his trust, and fear not. Do you remember the story of the old Viking who had been convertedto Christianity, and who, just as they were about, with much joy, tobaptize him, paused and asked: "But what--if this, as you tell me, isthe only way to the true Valhalla--what has become of my comrades, myfriends who are dead, who died in the old faith--where are they?" The priests, confused, replied there could be no doubt those unfortunatefolk had gone to a place they would rather not mention. "Then, " said the old warrior, stepping back, "I will not be baptized. Iwill go along with my own people. " He had lived with them, fought beside them; they were his people. Hewould stand by them to the end--of eternity. Most assuredly, a veryshocking old Viking! But I think it might be worth while giving up ourcivilization and our culture to get back to the days when they made menlike that. The only reminder of such times that we have left us now, is thebull-dog; and he is fast dying out--the pity of it! What a splendid olddog he is! so grim, so silent, so stanch; so terrible, when he has gothis idea, of his duty clear before him; so absurdly meek, when it isonly himself that is concerned. He is the gentlest, too, and the most lovable of all dogs. He does notlook it. The sweetness of his disposition would not strike the casualobserver at first glance. He resembles the gentleman spoken of in theoft-quoted stanza: 'E's all right when yer knows 'im. But yer've got to know 'im fust. The first time I ever met a bull-dog--to speak to, that is--was manyyears ago. We were lodging down in the country, an orphan friend ofmine named George, and myself, and one night, coming home late from somedissolving views we found the family had gone to bed. They had left alight in our room, however, and we went in and sat down, and began totake off our boots. And then, for the first time, we noticed on the hearthrug a bull-dog. A dog with a more thoughtfully ferocious expression--a dog with, apparently, a heart more dead to all ennobling and civilizingsentiments--I have never seen. As George said, he looked more like someheathen idol than a happy English dog. He appeared to have been waiting for us; and he rose up and greeted uswith a ghastly grin, and got between us and the door. We smiled at him--a sickly, propitiatory smile. We said, "Good dog--poorfellow!" and we asked him, in tones implying that the question couldadmit of no negative, if he was not a "nice old chap. " We did not reallythink so. We had our own private opinion concerning him, and it wasunfavorable. But we did not express it. We would not have hurt hisfeelings for the world. He was a visitor, our guest, so to speak--and, as well-brought-up young men, we felt that the right thing to do was forus to prevent his gaining any hint that we were not glad to see him, andto make him feel as little as possible the awkwardness of his position. I think we succeeded. He was singularly unembarrassed, and far more athis ease than even we were. He took but little notice of our flatteringremarks, but was much drawn toward George's legs. George used to be, I remember, rather proud of his legs. I could never see enough in themmyself to excuse George's vanity; indeed, they always struck meas lumpy. It is only fair to acknowledge, however, that they quitefascinated that bull-dog. He walked over and criticized them with theair of a long-baffled connoisseur who had at last found his ideal. Atthe termination of his inspection he distinctly smiled. George, who at that time was modest and bashful, blushed and drew themup on to the chair. On the dog's displaying a desire to follow them, George moved up on to the table, and squatted there in the middle, nursing his knees. George's legs being lost to him, the dog appearedinclined to console himself with mine. I went and sat beside George onthe table. Sitting with your feet drawn up in front of you, on a small and ricketyone-legged table, is a most trying exercise, especially if you are notused to it. George and I both felt our position keenly. We did not liketo call out for help, and bring the family down. We were proud youngmen, and we feared lest, to the unsympathetic eye of the comparativestranger, the spectacle we should present might not prove imposing. We sat on in silence for about half an hour, the dog keeping areproachful eye upon us from the nearest chair, and displayingelephantine delight whenever we made any movement suggestive of climbingdown. At the end of the half hour we discussed the advisability of "chancingit, " but decided not to. "We should never, " George said, "confoundfoolhardiness with courage. " "Courage, " he continued--George had quite a gift for maxims--"courage isthe wisdom of manhood; foolhardiness, the folly of youth. " He said that to get down from the table while that dog remained in theroom, would clearly prove us to be possessed of the latter quality; sowe restrained ourselves, and sat on. We sat on for over an hour, by which time, having both grown carelessof life and indifferent to the voice of Wisdom, we did "chance it;" andthrowing the table-cloth over our would-be murderer, charged for thedoor and got out. The next morning we complained to our landlady of her carelessness inleaving wild beasts about the place, and we gave her a brief if notexactly truthful, history of the business. Instead of the tender womanly sympathy we had expected, the old lady satdown in the easy chair and burst out laughing. "What! old Boozer, " she exclaimed, "you was afraid of old Boozer! Why, bless you, he wouldn't hurt a worm! He ain't got a tooth in his head, he ain't; we has to feed him with a spoon; and I'm sure the way the catchivies him about must be enough to make his life a burden to him. Iexpect he wanted you to nurse him; he's used to being nursed. " And that was the brute that had kept us sitting on a table, with ourboots off, for over an hour on a chilly night! Another bull-dog exhibition that occurs to me was one given by my uncle. He had had a bulldog--a young one--given to him by a friend. It was agrand dog, so his friend had told him; all it wanted was training--ithad not been properly trained. My uncle did not profess to know muchabout the training of bull-dogs; but it seemed a simple enough matter, so he thanked the man, and took his prize home at the end of a rope. "Have we got to live in the house with _this?_" asked my aunt, indignantly, coming in to the room about an hour after the dog's advent, followed by the quadruped himself, wearing an idiotically self-satisfiedair. "That!" exclaimed my uncle, in astonishment; "why, it's a splendid dog. His father was honorably mentioned only last year at the Aquarium. " "Ah, well, all I can say is, that his son isn't going the way toget honorably mentioned in this neighborhood, " replied my aunt, withbitterness; "he's just finished killing poor Mrs. McSlanger's cat, ifyou want to know what he has been doing. And a pretty row there'll beabout it, too!" "Can't we hush it up?" said my uncle. "Hush it up?" retorted my aunt. "If you'd heard the row, you wouldn'tsit there and talk like a fool. And if you'll take my advice, " added myaunt, "you'll set to work on this 'training, ' or whatever it is, thathas got to be done to the dog, before any human life is lost. " My uncle was too busy to devote any time to the dog for the next day orso, and all that could be done was to keep the animal carefully confinedto the house. And a nice time we had with him! It was not that the animal wasbad-hearted. He meant well--he tried to do his duty. What was wrongwith him was that he was too hard-working. He wanted to do too much. Hestarted with an exaggerated and totally erroneous notion of his dutiesand responsibilities. His idea was that he had been brought into thehouse for the purpose of preventing any living human soul from comingnear it and of preventing any person who might by chance have managed toslip in from ever again leaving it. We endeavored to induce him to take a less exalted view of his position, but in vain. That was the conception he had formed in his own mindconcerning his earthly task, and that conception he insisted on livingup to with, what appeared to us to be, unnecessary conscientiousness. He so effectually frightened away all the trades people, that they atlast refused to enter the gate. All that they would do was to bringtheir goods and drop them over the fence into the front garden, fromwhere we had to go and fetch them as we wanted them. "I wish you'd run into the garden, " my aunt would say to me--I wasstopping with them at the time--"and see if you can find any sugar; Ithink there's some under the big rose-bush. If not, you'd better go toJones' and order some. " And on the cook's inquiring what she should get ready for lunch, my auntwould say: "Well, I'm sure, Jane, I hardly know. What have we? Are there any chopsin the garden, or was it a bit of steak that I noticed on the lawn?" On the second afternoon the plumbers came to do a little job to thekitchen boiler. The dog, being engaged at the time in the front of thehouse, driving away the postman, did not notice their arrival. Hewas broken-hearted at finding them there when he got downstairs, andevidently blamed himself most bitterly. Still, there they were, allowing to his carelessness, and the only thing to be done now was to seethat they did not escape. There were three plumbers (it always takes three plumbers to do a job;the first man comes on ahead to tell you that the second man will bethere soon, the second man comes to say that he can't stop, and thethird man follows to ask if the first man has been there); and thatfaithful, dumb animal kept them pinned up in the kitchen--fancy wantingto keep plumbers in a house longer than is absolutely necessary!--forfive hours, until my uncle came home; and the bill ran: "Self and twomen engaged six hours, repairing boiler-tap, 18s. ; material, 2d. ; total18s. 2d. " He took a dislike to the cook from the very first. We did not blame himfor this. She was a disagreeable old woman, and we did not think muchof her ourselves. But when it came to keeping her out of the kitchen, so that she could not do her work, and my aunt and uncle had to cook thedinner themselves, assisted by the housemaid--a willing-enough girl, butnecessarily inexperienced--we felt that the woman was being subject topersecution. My uncle, after this, decided that the dog's training must be no longerneglected. The man next door but one always talked as if he knew a lotabout sporting matters, and to him my uncle went for advice as to how toset about it. "Oh, yes, " said the man, cheerfully, "very simple thing, training abull-dog. Wants patience, that's all. " "Oh, that will be all right, " said my uncle; "it can't want much morethan living in the same house with him before he's trained does. How doyou start?" "Well, I'll tell you, " said next-door-but-one. "You take him up into aroom where there's not much furniture, and you shut the door and boltit. " "I see, " said my uncle. "Then you place him on the floor in the middle of the room, and you godown on your knees in front of him, and begin to irritate him. " "Oh!" "Yes--and you go on irritating him until you have made him quitesavage. " "Which, from what I know of the dog, won't take long, " observed my unclethoughtfully. "So much the better. The moment he gets savage he will fly at you. " My uncle agreed that the idea seemed plausible. "He will fly at your throat, " continued the next-door-but-one man, "andthis is where you will have to be careful. _As_ he springs toward you, and _before_ he gets hold of you, you must hit him a fair straight blowon his nose, and knock him down. " "Yes, I see what you mean. " "Quite so--well, the moment you have knocked him down, he will jump upand go for you again. You must knock him down again; and you must keepon doing this, until the dog is thoroughly cowed and exhausted. Once heis thoroughly cowed, the thing's done--dog's as gentle as a lamb afterthat. " "Oh!" says my uncle, rising from his chair, "you think that a good way, do you?" "Certainly, " replied the next-door-but-one man; "it never fails. " "Oh! I wasn't doubting it, " said my uncle; "only it's just occurred tome that as you understand the knack of these things, perhaps _you'd_like to come in and try _your_ hand on the dog? We can give you aroom quite to yourselves; and I'll undertake that nobody comes near tointerfere with you. And if--if, " continued my uncle, with that kindlythoughtfulness which ever distinguished his treatment of others, "_if_, by any chance, you should miss hitting the dog at the proper criticalmoment, or, if _you_ should get cowed and exhausted first, instead ofthe dog--why, I shall only be too pleased to take the whole burden ofthe funeral expenses on my own shoulders; and I hope you know me wellenough to feel sure that the arrangements will be tasteful, and, at thesame time, unostentatious!" And out my uncle walked. We next consulted the butcher, who agreed that the prize-ring method wasabsurd, especially when recommended to a short-winded, elderly familyman, and who recommended, instead, plenty of out-door exercise for thedog, under my uncle's strict supervision and control. "Get a fairly long chain for him, " said the butcher, "and take him outfor a good stiff run every evening. Never let him get away from you;make him mind you, and bring him home always thoroughly exhausted. Youstick to that for a month or two, regular, and you'll have him like alittle child. " "Um!--seems to me that I'm going to get more training over his job thananybody else, " muttered my uncle, as he thanked the man and left theshop; "but I suppose it's got to be done. Wish I'd never had the d---dog now!" So, religiously, every evening, my uncle would fasten a long chain tothat poor dog, and drag him away from his happy home with the idea ofexhausting him; and the dog would come back as fresh as paint, my unclebehind him, panting and clamoring for brandy. My uncle said he should never have dreamed there could have been suchstirring times in this prosaic nineteenth century as he had, trainingthat dog. Oh, the wild, wild scamperings over the breezy common--the dog trying tocatch a swallow, and my uncle, unable to hold him back, following at theother end of the chain! Oh, the merry frolics in the fields, when the dog wanted to kill a cow, and the cow wanted to kill the dog, and they each dodged round my uncle, trying to do it! And, oh, the pleasant chats with the old ladies when the dog wound thechain into a knot around their legs, and upset them, and my uncle had tosit down in the road beside them, and untie them before they could getup again! But a crisis came at last. It was a Saturday afternoon--uncle beingexercised by dog in usual way--nervous children playing in road, seedog, scream, and run--playful young dog thinks it a game, jerks chainout of uncle's grasp, and flies after them--uncle flies after dog, calling it names--fond parent in front garden, seeing beloved childrenchased by savage dog, followed by careless owner, flies after uncle, calling _him_ names--householders come to doors and cry, "Shame!"--alsothrow things at dog--things don't hit dog, hit uncle--things that don'thit uncle, hit fond parent--through the village and up the hill, overthe bridge and round by the green--grand run, mile and a half without abreak! Children sink exhausted--dog gambols up among them--children gointo fits--fond parent and uncle come up together, both breathless. "Why don't you call your dog off, you wicked old man?" "Because I can't recollect his name, you old fool, you!" Fond parent accuses uncle of having set dog on--uncle, indignant, reviles fond parent--exasperated fond parent attacks uncle--uncleretaliates with umbrella--faithful dog comes to assistance of uncle, and inflicts great injury on fond parent--arrival of police--dog attackspolice--uncle and fond parent both taken into custody--uncle fined fivepounds and costs for keeping a ferocious dog at large--uncle fined fivepounds and costs for assault on fond parent--uncle fined five pounds andcost for assault on police! My uncle gave the dog away soon after that. He did not waste him. Hegave him as a wedding-present to a near relation. But the saddest story I ever heard in connection with a bull-dog, wasone told by my aunt herself. Now you can rely upon this story, because it is not one of mine, it isone of my aunt's, and she would scorn to tell a lie. This is a storyyou could tell to the heathen, and feel that you were teaching themthe truth and doing them good. They give this story out at all theSunday-schools in our part of the country, and draw moral lessons fromit. It is a story that a little child can believe. It happened in the old crinoline days. My aunt, who was then living in acountry-town, had gone out shopping one morning, and was standing in theHigh Street, talking to a lady friend, a Mrs. Gumworthy, the doctor'swife. She (my aunt) had on a new crinoline that morning, in which, to use her own expression, she rather fancied herself. It wasa tremendously big one, as stiff as a wire-fence; and it "set"beautifully. They were standing in front of Jenkins', the draper's; and my auntthinks that it--the crinoline--must have got caught up in something, and an opening thus left between it and the ground. However this maybe, certain it is that an absurdly large and powerful bull-dog, who wasfooling round about there at the time, managed, somehow or other, tosquirm in under my aunt's crinoline, and effectually imprison himselfbeneath it. Finding himself suddenly in a dark and gloomy chamber, the dog, naturally enough, got frightened, and made frantic rushes to get out. But whichever way he charged; there was the crinoline in front ofhim. As he flew, he, of course, carried it before him, and with thecrinoline, of course, went my aunt. But nobody knew the explanation. My aunt herself did not know what hadhappened. Nobody had seen the dog creep inside the crinoline. All thatthe people did see was a staid and eminently respectable middle-agedlady suddenly, and without any apparent reason, throw her umbrella downin the road, fly up the High Street at the rate of ten miles an hour, rush across it at the imminent risk of her life, dart down it again onthe other side, rush sideways, like an excited crab, into agrocer's shop, run three times round the shop, upsetting the wholestock-in-trade, come out of the shop backward and knock down a postman, dash into the roadway and spin round twice, hover for a moment, undecided, on the curb, and then away up the hill again, as if she hadonly just started, all the while screaming out at the top of her voicefor somebody to stop her! Of course, everybody thought she was mad. The people flew before herlike chaff before the wind. In less than five seconds the High Streetwas a desert. The townsfolk scampered into their shops and houses andbarricaded the doors. Brave men dashed out and caught up little childrenand bore them to places of safety amid cheers. Carts and carriages wereabandoned, while the drivers climbed up lamp-posts! What would have happened had the affair gone on much longer--whether myaunt would have been shot, or the fire-engine brought into requisitionagainst her--it is impossible, having regard to the terrified state ofthe crowd, to say. Fortunately for her, she became exhausted. Withone despairing shriek she gave way, and sat down on the dog; and peacereigned once again in that sweet rural town.