Transcribed from the 1902 Gay and Bird edition by David Price, [email protected]
{Book cover: cover.jpg}
THE DIARY OF A GOOSE GIRL
BYKATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BYCLAUDE A. SHEPPERSON
GAY AND BIRD22 BEDFORD STREET, STRANDLONDON1902
{I looked about me with what Stevenson calls a 'fine dizzy, muddle-headedjob': p01.jpg}
TO THE HENS, DUCKS, AND GEESEWHO SO KINDLY GAVE MESITTINGS FOR THESESKETCHES THE BOOKIS GRATEFULLYINSCRIBED
CHAPTER I.
{Thornycroft House: p1a.jpg}
THORNYCROFT FARM, near Barbury Green, July 1, 190-.
{Picture of woman and goose: p1b.jpg}
In alluding to myself as a Goose Girl, I am using only the most modest ofmy titles; for I am also a poultry-maid, a tender of Belgian hares andrabbits, and a shepherdess; but I particularly fancy the role of GooseGirl, because it recalls the German fairy tales of my early youth, when Ialways yearned, but never hoped, to be precisely what I now am.
As I was jolting along these charming Sussex roads the other day, a fatbuff pony and a tippy cart being my manner of progression, I chanced uponthe village of Barbury Green.
One glance was enough for any woman, who, having eyes to see, could seewith them; but I made assurance doubly sure by driving about a little,struggling to conceal my new-born passion from the stable-boy who was myescort. Then, it being high noon of a cloudless day, I descended fromthe trap and said to the astonished yokel: "You may go back to theHydropathic; I am spending a month or two here. Wait a moment--I'll senda message, please!"
I then scribbled a word or two to those having me in custody.
"I am very tired of people," the note ran, "and want to rest myself byliving a while with things. Address me (if you must) at Barbury Greenpost-office, or at all events send me a box of simple clothingthere--nothing but shirts and skirts, please. I cannot forget that I amonly twenty miles from Oxenbridge (though it might be one hundred andtwenty, which is the reason I adore it), but I rely upon you to keep anhonourable distance yourselves, and not to divulge my place of retreat toothers, especially to--you know whom! Do not pursue me. I will never betaken alive!"
Having cut, thus, the cable that bound me to civilisation, and havingseen the buff pony and the dazed yokel disappear in a cloud of dust, Ilooked about me with what Stevenson calls a "fine, dizzy, muddle-headedjoy," the joy of a successful rebel or a liberated serf. Plenty of moneyin my purse--that was unromantic, of course, but it simplifiedmatters--and nine hours of daylight remaining in which to find a lodging.
{Life converges there, just at the public duck-pond: p3.jpg}
The village is one of the oldest, and I am sure it must be one of thequaintest, in England. It is too small to be printed on the map (anhonour that has spoiled more than one Arcadia), so pray do not lookthere, but just believe in it, and some day you may be rewarded bydriving into it by chance, as I did, and feel the same Columbus thrillrunning, like an electric current, through your veins. I withholdspecific geographical information in order that you may not miss thatColumbus thrill, which comes too seldom in a world of railroads.
The Green is in the very centre of Barbury village, and all civic,political, family, and social life converges there, just at the publicduck-pond--a wee, sleepy lake with a slope of grass-covered stones bywhich the ducks descend for their swim.
The houses are set about the Green like those in a toy village. They areof old brick, with crumpled, up-and-down roofs of deep-toned red, andtufts of stonecrop growing from the eaves. Diamond-paned windows, halfopen, admit the sweet summer air; and as for the gardens in front, itwould seem as if the inhabitants had nothing to do but work in them,there is such a riotous profusion of colour and bloom. To add to theeffect, there are always pots of flowers hanging from the trees, blueflax and yellow myrtle; and cages of Java sparrows and canaries singingjoyously, as well they may in such a paradise.
{The houses are set about the Green: p5.jpg}
The shops are idyllic, too, as if Nature had seized even the man of tradeand made him subservient to her designs. The general draper's, where Ifitted myself out for a day or two quite easily, is set back in a tangleof poppies and sweet peas, Madonna lilies and Canterbury bells. The shopitself has a gay awning, and what do you think the draper has suspendedfrom it, just as a picturesque suggestion to the passer-by? Suggestion Icall it, because I should blush to use the word advertisement indescribing anything so dainty and decorative. Well, then, garlands ofshoes, if you please! Baby bootlets of bronze; tiny ankle-ties inyellow, blue, and scarlet kid; glossy patent-leather pumps shining in thesun, with festoons of slippers at the corners, flowery slippers inimitation Berlin wool-work. If you make this picture in your mind's-eye,just add a window above the awning, and over the fringe of marigolds inthe window-box put the draper's wife dancing a rosy-cheeked baby. Alas!my words are only black and white, I fear, and this picture needs apalette drenched in primary colours.
Along the street, a short distance, is the old watchmaker's. Set in thehedge at the gate is a glass case with _Multum in Parvo_ painted on thewoodwork. Within, a little stand of trinkets revolves slowly; as slowly,I imagine, as the current of business in that quiet street. The housestands a trifle back and is covered thickly with ivy, while over theentrance-door of the shop is a great round clock set in a green frame ofclustering vine. The hands pointed to one when I passed the watchmaker'sgarden with its thicket of fragrant lavender and its murmuring bees; so Iwent in to the sign of the "Strong i' the Arm" for some cold luncheon,determining to patronise "The Running Footman" at the very nextopportunity. Neither of these inns is starred by Baedeker, and this factadds the last touch of enchantment to the picture.
The landlady at the "Strong i' the Arm" stabbed me in the heart bytelling me that there were no apartments to let in the village, and thatshe had no private sitting-room in the inn; but she speedily healed thewound by saying that I might be accommodated at one of the farm-houses inthe vicinity. Did I object to a farm-'ouse? Then she could cheerfullyrecommend the Evan's farm, only 'alf a mile away. She 'ad understoodfrom Miss Phoebe Evan, who sold her poultry, that they would take onelady lodger if she didn't wish much waiting upon.
In my present mood I was in search of the strenuous life, and eager towait, rather than to be waited upon; so I walked along the edge of theGreen, wishing that some mentally unbalanced householder would take asudden fancy to me and ask me to come in and lodge awhile. I supposethese families live under their roofs of peach-blow tiles, in the midstof their blooming gardens, for a guinea a week or thereabouts; yet ifthey "undertook" me (to use their own phrase), the bill for my humblemeals and bed would be at least double that. I don't know that I blamethem; one should have proper compensation for admitting a world-stainedlodger into such an Eden.
When I was searching for rooms a week ago, I chanced upon a prettycottage where the woman had sometimes let apartments. She showed me thepremises and asked me if I would mind taking my meals in her own dining-room, where I could be served privately at certain hours: and, since shehad but the one sitting-room, would I allow her to go on using itoccasionally? also, if I had no special preference, would I take thesecond-sized bedroom and leave her in possession of the largest one,which permitted her to have the baby's crib by her bedside? She thoughtI should be quite as comfortable, and it was her opinion that in makingarrangements with lodgers, it was a good plan not to "bryke up the 'omeany more than was necessary."
"Bryke up the 'ome!" That is seemingly the malignant purpose with whichI entered Barbury Green.
The Diary of a Goose Girl Page 1
