It was on the way to G. that I expected to see the first lamb of March, irresponsible as a daddy-long-legs: and the big meadows beyond H. seldom failed to show the first infant colt. In May the cuckoo--but that reminds me of a story told me by one of my most hospitable managers, good old Mr. S., now gone to his rest. He was exceedingly deaf, and one talked to him through tubes and trumpets, but he bore his affliction most cheerily. One May night at dinner--he himself told me the story--his neighbour, being a little embarrassed with the trumpet, lost her head, and shouted into the apparatus: “Have you heard the cuckoo, Mr. S.?” “Not for thirty years,” he replied with keen enjoyment, and with his most fatherly smile. The rest was silence. To the Inspector, possibly to the manager’s wife, lunch was a more serious question than Form IX. Soon after my appointment I consulted an eminent London doctor about some ailment, and was given a string of dietary rules, among which one remains in my memory: “For lunch you’ll have a piece of bread and butter and a glass of cold water.” That, I said firmly, was impossible; I was an inspector of schools, and part of my official duty was to lunch with the parson of the parish. If I were to confine myself to this convict fare, I should give grave offence; and, moreover, should weaken public confidence in my judgment. Who would accept the report of a man who lunched on bread and butter, when he could get fatted calf? He admitted the plea. My superior officer of that time never lunched with the managers: he said he liked to lunch with his own family. I was only a lodger, and a hungry one; and when the clergy found that I would gladly accept their hospitable offers, I rose in their estimation. But as work increased, this mid-day meal became a burden; and as years increased, what Homer calls “the love of meat and drink” abated; then came the end of formal inspections,[21] and for the remaining time I lunched chiefly at railway stations. Yet while the luncheon season lasted, I had many pleasant hours, and made many valued friendships. Many managers invited us out of pure brotherly kindness: some possibly because it was usual to “lunch” the inspector: a few perhaps with a faint hope that a good lunch might soothe the savage beast. “Ask him to lunch,” wrote one of them to a brother manager on a piece of paper, which was by chance laid on the table in front of my unexpectant eyes, and read before I knew what I was reading: “_a little civility is never thrown away;_” and I was feasted royally, while my sub., who was going to mark the examination papers, was sent empty away. I enjoyed that lunch.