Read Ebook: A Sheaf by Galsworthy John

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Ebook has 987 lines and 90623 words, and 20 pages

"'Well,' I said, 'I call it cruel to keep a hawk shut up like that.'

"'Cruel? Why? What's a hawk, anyway--cruel devils enough!'

"'My dear sir,' I said, 'they earn their living just like men, without caring for other creatures' sufferings. You are not shut up, apparently, for doing that. Good-bye.'"

As he said this, my friend looked at me, and added:

There was such feeling in his voice that I hesitated long before answering.

"Well," I said, at last, "in England, anyway, we only keep such creatures in captivity for scientific purposes. I doubt if you could find a single instance nowadays of its being done just as a commercial attraction."

He stared at me.

"Yes," he said, "we do it publicly and scientifically, to enlarge the mind. But let me put to you this question. Which do you consider has the larger mind--the man who has satisfied his idle curiosity by staring at all the caged animals of the earth, or the man who has been brought up to feel that to keep such indomitable creatures as hawks and eagles, wolves and panthers, shut up, to gratify mere curiosity, is a dreadful thing?"

To that singular question I knew not what to answer. At last I said:

"I think you underrate the pleasure they give. We English are so awfully fond of animals!"

For "I" read "almost anyone."--J. G.

? 2.

We had entered Battersea Park by now, and since my remark about our love of beasts we had not spoken. A wood-pigeon which had been strutting before us just then flew up into a tree and began puffing out its breast. Seeking to break the silence, I said:

"Pigeons are so complacent."

My friend smiled in his dubious way, and answered:

"Do you know the 'blue rock'?"

"No."

"Ah! there you have a pigeon who has less complacency than any living thing. You see, it depends on circumstances. Suppose, for instance, that we happened to keep Our Selves--perhaps the most complacent class of human beings--in a large space enclosed by iron railings, feeding them up carefully, until their natural instincts caused them to run up and down at a considerable speed from side to side of the enclosure. And suppose when we noticed that they had attained the full speed and strength of their legs we took them out, holding them gingerly in order that they might not become exhausted by struggling, and placed them in little tin compartments so dark and stuffy that they would not care of their own accord to stay there, and then stood back about thirty paces with a shot gun and pressed a spring which let the tin compartment collapse. And then, as each one of Our Selves ran out, we let fly with the right barrel and peppered him in the tail, whereon, if he fell, we sent a dog out to fetch him in by the slack of his breeches, and after holding him idly for a minute by the neck we gave it a wring round; or, if he did not fall, we prayed Heaven at once and let fly with the left barrel. Do you think in these circumstances Our Selves would be complacent?"

"Don't be absurd!" I said.

"Very well," he replied, "I will come to 'blue rocks'--do you still maintain that they are so complacent as to deserve their fate?"

"I don't know--I know nothing about their fate."

"What the eyes do not swallow, the heart does not throw up! There are other places, but--have you been to Monte Carlo?"

"No, and I should never think of going there."

I caught him up: "I don't agree at all."

"It's more important that they shouldn't hurt themselves than that they shouldn't hurt pigeons, if that's what you're driving at," I said.

"There wouldn't appear to you, I suppose, to be any connection in the matter?"

"I tell you," I repeated, "I know nothing about pigeon-shooting!"

He stared very straight before him.

"Imagine," he said, "a blue sea, and a half-circle of grass, with a low wall. Imagine on that grass five traps, from which lead paths--like the rays of a star--to the central point on the base of that half-circle. And imagine on that central point a gentleman with a double-barrelled gun, another man, and a retriever dog. And imagine one of those traps opening, and a little dazed gray bird emerge and fly perhaps six yards. And imagine the sound of the gun and the little bird dipping in its flight, but struggling on. And imagine the sound of the gun again and the little bird falling to the ground and wriggling on along it. And imagine the retriever dog run forward and pick it up and walk slowly back with it, still quivering, in his mouth. Or imagine, once in a way, the little bird drop dead as a stone at the first sound. Or imagine again that it winces at the shots, yet carries on over the boundary, to fall into the sea. Or--but this very seldom--imagine it wing up and out, unhurt, to the first freedom it has ever known. My friend, the joke is this: To the man who lets no little bird away to freedom comes much honour, and a nice round sum of money! Do you still think there is no connection?"

"Well," I said, "it doesn't sound too sportsman-like. And yet, I suppose, looking at it quite broadly, it does minister in a sort of way to the law of the survival of the fittest."

"In which species--man or pigeon?"

"The sportsman is necessary to the expansion of Empire. Besides, you must remember that one does not expect high standards at Monte Carlo."

He looked at me. "Do you never read any sporting paper?" he asked.

"No."

"Did you ever hunt the carted stag?"

"No, I never did."

"Well, you've been coursing, anyway."

"Certainly; but there's no comparing that with pigeon-shooting."

Then, looking at me in a queer, mournful sort of way, he said suddenly:

? 3.

Before I could comment on my friend's narrative we were spattered with mud by passing riders, and stopped to repair the damage to our coats.

"Jolly for my new coat!" I said. "Do you notice, by the way, that they are cutting men's tails longer this spring? More becoming to a fellow, I think."

He raised those quizzical eyebrows of his and murmured:

"And horses' tails shorter. Did you see those that passed just now?"

"No."

"There were none!"

"Nonsense!" I said. "My dear fellow, you really are obsessed about beasts! They were just ordinary."

"Quite--a few scrubby hairs, and a wriggle."

"Now, please," I said, "don't begin to talk of the cruelty of docking horses' tails, and tell me a story of an old horse in a pond."

"No," he answered, "for I should have to invent that. What I was going to say was this: Which do you think the greater fools in the matter of fashion--men or women?"

"Oh! Women."

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