The Diary of a Goose GirlWiggin, Kate Douglas Smith
General
The Diary of a Goose Girl
Wiggin, Kate Douglas Smith
England -- Juvenile fiction; Geese -- Juvenile fiction
Instantly she was answered from a distant knoll, where for some reason
Sir Muscovy loved to retire for meditation. The cries grew lower and
softer as the birds approached each other, and they met at the corner
just under my window. Instantly they put their two bills together and
the loud cries changed to confiding murmurs. Evidently some hurried
questions and answers passed between them, and then Sir Muscovy waddled
rapidly by the quickest path, Miss Crippletoes following him at a slower
pace, and both passed out of sight, using their wings to help their feet
down the steep declivity. The next morning, when I wakened early, my
first thought was to look out, and there on the sunny greensward where
they were accustomed to be fed, Sir Muscovy, Lady Blanche, and their
humble maid, Malardina Crippletoes, were scattering their own breakfast
before the bills of twelve beautiful golden balls of ducklings. The
little creatures could never have climbed the bank, but must have started
from their nest at dawn, coming round by the brook to the level at the
foot of the garden, and so by slow degrees up to the house.
Judging from what I heard and knew of their habits, I am sure the
excitement of the previous morning was occasioned by the hatching of the
eggs, and that Lady Blanche had hastily sent her friend to call Sir
Muscovy, the family remaining together until they could bring the babies
with them and display their beauty to Phoebe and me.
CHAPTER X
July 14th.
We are not wholly without the pleasures of the town in Barbury Green.
Once or twice in a summer, late on a Saturday afternoon, a procession of
red and yellow vans drives into a field near the centre of the village.
By the time the vans are unpacked all the children in the community are
surrounding the gate of entrance. There is rifle-shooting, there is
fortune-telling, there are games of pitch and toss, and swings, and
French bagatelle; and, to crown all, a wonderful orchestrion that goes by
steam. The water is boiled for the public's tea, and at the same time
thrilling strains of melody are flung into the air. There is at present
only one tune in the orchestrion's repertory, but it is a very good tune;
though after hearing it three hundred and seven times in a single
afternoon, it pursues one, sleeping and waking, for the next week. Phoebe
and I took the Square Baby and went in to this diversified entertainment.
There was a small crowd of children at the entrance, but as none of them
seemed to be provided with pennies, and I felt in a fairy godmother mood,
I offered them the freedom of the place at my expense.
I never purchased more radiant good-will for less money, but the combined
effect of the well-boiled tea and the boiling orchestrion produced many
village nightmares, so the mothers told me at chapel next morning.
* * * * *
I have many friends in Barbury Green, and often have a pleasant chat with
the draper, and the watchmaker, and the chemist.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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