Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.Farjeon, B. L. (Benjamin Leopold)
General
Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.
Farjeon, B. L. (Benjamin Leopold)
Christmas stories; Fiction
As a public man, James Million, Esquire, M.P. for Brewingham, felt it
necessary to his position to spend two or three hours in his study
every morning, and to 'make-believe' to be busy. Had you asked James
Million what he was, he would not have told you that he was a brewer
or a capitalist, but would have replied briefly and emphatically, 'A
public man, sir.' Now, to be a public man, you must have a
shuttlecock; and whether it was that Mr. Million had a real sympathy
for the institution known as the working man, or because the working
man drank large quantities of Million's Entire and Million's Treble X,
it is certain that he set up the working man as his shuttlecock; and
it is quite as certain that he set it up without in the least
understanding it, being, indeed, a most unskilful player at any game
in which his own interests were not directly involved. The game of
battledoor and shuttlecock is a popular one with us from childhood
upwards, but I am not aware that any close observer and noter of
curious things has ever calculated how many shuttlecocks an ordinary
battledoor will outlast. Popular as the game is with children, it is
more popular with public men, who, battledoor in hand, are apt (in
their enthusiasm and love for the game) to run into exceedingly wild,
extremes when a new shuttlecock, with spick and span new feathers, is
cast among them. Such a superabundance of energy do they in their zeal
impart into the game that they often sorely bruise the poor
shuttlecock, and so knock it out of all shape and proportion that the
members of its family find it impossible to recognise it. How many a
poor shuttlecock have you and I seen on its last legs, as one might
say, in a desperate condition from being much hit and much missed and
much trodden into the mud, and with feathers that would rival those of
a roupy old hen in the last stage of dissolution! and looking upon it
in melancholy mood, may we not be excused for dwelling sadly upon the
time (but yesterday!) when its feathers were new and crimson-tipped,
and when it proudly took its first flight in the air?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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