FullReads

Perhaps it is because they find that their fellow-creatures are nicer than they have been wont to allow them to be, and that other people’s affairs are quite as interesting as their own.

Perhaps–but what is the good of trying to explain infatuations?

Why do we all love valerian? I can only record that, having set up every prickle on our backs against intruders into our wood, we now dreaded nothing more than that our neighbours should forsake us, and wished for nothing better than for fresh arrivals.

In old days, when my excellent partner and I used to take our evening stroll up the field, we were wont to regard it quite as a grievance if a cousin, who lived at the far end of the hedge, came out and caught us and detained us for a gossip. But now I could hardly settle to my midday nap for thinking of the tinker-mother; and as to Mrs. Hedgehog, she almost annoyed me by her anxiety to see Christian. However, curiosity is the foible of her sex, and I accompanied her daily to the encampment without a murmur.

The seven urchins we sent down to the burdocks to pick snails.

It was not many days after that on which we heard the old tinker-mother relate Christian’s history, that we were stopped on our way to the corner where we usually concealed ourselves, by hearing strange voices from the winding pathway above us.

“It’s a young man,” said I.

“It’s Christian!” cried Mrs. Hedgehog.

“I feel sure that it is not,” said I; “but if you will keep quiet, I will creep a little forward and see.”

I am always in the right, as I make a point of reminding Mrs. Hedgehog whenever we dispute; and I was right on this occasion.

The lad who spoke was a young gentleman of about seventeen, and no more like a gipsy than I am. His fair hair was closely cropped, his eyes were quick and bright, his manner was alert and almost anxious, and though he was very slight as well as very young, he carried himself with dignity and some little importance. A lady, much older than himself, was with him, whom he was helping down the path.

“Take care, Gertrude, take care. There is no hurry, and I believe there’s no one in the wood but ourselves.”

“The people at the inn told us that there were gipsies in the neighbourhood,” said the lady; “and oh, Ted! this is exactly the wood I dreamt of, except the purple and white–“

“Gertrude! What on earth are you after?”

“The flowers, Ted, the flowers in my dream! There they are, a perfect carpet of them. White–oh, how lovely!–and there, on the other side, are the purple ones. What are they, dear? I know you are a good botanist. He always raved about your collection.”

“Nonsense, I’m not a botanist. Several other fellows went in for it when the prize was offered, and all that my collection was good for was his doing. I never did see any one arrange flowers as he did, I must say. Every specimen was pressed so as somehow to keep its own way of growing. And when I did them, a columbine looked as stiff as a dog-daisy. I never could keep any character in them. Watson–the fellow who drew so well–made vignettes on the blank pages to lots of the specimens–‘Likely Habitats’ we called them. He used to sit with his paint-box in my window, and Christian used to sit outside the window, on the edge, dangling his legs, and describing scenes out of his head for Watson to draw. Watson used to say, ‘I wish I could paint with my brush as that fellow paints with his tongue’–and when the vignettes were admired, I’ve heard him say, in his dry way, ‘I copied them from Christian’s paintings;’ and the fellows used to stare, for you know he couldn’t draw a line. And when–But I say, Gertrude, for Heaven’s sake, don’t devour everything I say with those great pitiful eyes of yours. I am a regular brute to talk about him.”