The Day Before Yesterday. Richard Middleton
for we knew that if we had the power we should tell such stories to ourselves all day long. We did not only fail to realise that he was mad; we knew that he was the only reasonable creature of adult years who ever came near us. He understood us and paid us the supreme compliment of allowing us to understand him. The world called him fantastic for actions that convinced us that he was wise, and, thanks to a fate that seemed at the time insensately cruel, the spell was never broken.
ADMIRALS ALL
When the Christmas holidays are over, and pantomimes and parties are cleared away, there is usually a marked revival in a sport that has languished during those exciting weeks. A child who wished to play at boats, when the air was full of the smell of tangerine oranges and the glamour of the footlights, would not be tolerated in any decent schoolroom. But with the reappearance of lessons there comes a sudden demand for walnut-shells and sealing-wax, and bath-night, a thing undesirable while the house is noisy with new tunes, becomes the cause of rivalry and passionate argument.
So at least it fell in the days when childhood was more than the kernel of an article. The first symptom of the new movement was an eager interest in dessert. We would entreat the Olympians to forego nut-crackers and to use our new Christmas pocket-knives for the purpose of opening their walnuts, and we would regard the results with a keen and professional eye. Were they destined to be clippers, yachts notable in history, or mere utilitarian tubs to be laden with tipsy tin-soldiers and sunk ignominiously by brass cannon? We were all naval experts and our judgments were not often wrong. But even if a walnut-shell had the right racing lines, there remained the delicate operation of stepping the mast. The “blob” of sealing-wax had to be dropped in exactly the right place, and the whittled safety-match that served for a mast must be truly perpendicular or the craft would be lopsided. The paper sail was as large as safety would permit.
There followed regattas in a basin filled to the brim with water. The yachts raced from one side to the other, and some one, assumed neutral, blew with a level breath across the flood to supply the necessary wind. The reward of victory was a little coloured flag that was gummed to the sail of the successful boat. On a memorable day my Swallow beat a hitherto undefeated champion in my eldest brother’s Irene, a result the more astonishing that Irene’s owner was himself filling the rôle of Æolus. I am glad to think it was Irene that was flung out of the window.
Apart from these classic contests there were secret trials and naval reviews in private waters, and that intimate kind of navigation that took place in one’s bath. This last was spiced with an agreeable element of risk, for a rash movement would send the whole fleet to the bottom of the sea; but at the same time in no other way could an admiral have the elements so much under his control. Like Neptune, he could raise a storm at will, and when the ships had battled gallantly against terrible waves and icebergs of patent soap, a pair of pink feet would rise above the surface of the ocean, and the Fortunate Islands would greet the tired eyes of the mariners. It is a fine thing to sail about the world, but it is very good to be at home.
Later on, as the weather grew warmer, we indulged in more adventurous, and let it be admitted, more enjoyable, sport. Walnut boats and paper junks ballasted with shot might be well enough for the cold months or wet afternoons, but when the summer called us out to play, our ambitious hearts desired weightier craft than these. Then the yachts that uncles had given us, which had been cruising peacefully on the playroom floor during the indoor weeks, were brought out and considered in their new aspect. There was always something at once thrilling and disappointing about these stately ships. The height of their masts, the intricacy of their rigging, and the little lines that marked the planks of their deck, filled us with pride, and made us seek the nearest pond with quick, elated steps. But these things might be as well admired indoors, and somehow these boats never sailed as well on any wakeful pond as they did on the waters of our dreams. There they were for ever tossing on the crests of enormous waves, and all night long their great masts went crashing by the board; but on Pickhurst Pond they behaved with a staid monotony, and while we and the boats of our hands had as many moods as the spring, these official craft were content to perform their business of sailing with the conscientious precision of grown-up persons.
There was more to be said for the modest sort of boat you would buy for sixpence or a shilling. They had a useless mast and sail (the boat capsized if you set it), seats that were annoying but easily removed, and sometimes, as a crowning piece of Philistinism, oars! We would have scorned to give a moment’s consideration to a rowing boat at any time. We wanted only craft that were fit to cruise with equal adroitness on boundless oceans and unhealthy tropic rivers, and, lacking a hold, where should we keep the rum and the pieces of eight? But if you threw away everything but the bare hull, and painted that black, you had a very sound basis for sensible boat-building. A tin railway carriage would make a cabin, a wooden brick the quarter-deck, and if you could find some lead for the keel you might give the vessel a real mast with which to strike the southern stars.
But, after all, the best boats were the boats we built entirely ourselves. Our favourite materials were corks, empty match-boxes, and such wood as lies within the scope of a pocket-knife, and we would drive tintacks into the craft until it looked like a nursery cake, crowned with burnt currants. The resulting ships varied as to shape and size, but could be trusted to conduct themselves in the water with a charming eccentricity. Sometimes they seemed to skim the waves like birds, sometimes the water leaped through them with a laugh, and they sank down to join the minnows and the pebbles at the bottom of the stream. In the latter case the owner would lie flat on the bank with a sharp stone pressing into his chest, and feel for the lost craft in the cold, slippery waters; for the rest of the morning his shirt-sleeve would cling damply to his skin, while the assembled experts considered the failure and made acute suggestions.
The stream—we called it a river—on which we sailed these ships passed in its cheerful course through an iron pipe, and sometimes a vessel that had disappeared merrily under the dark arch would be seen no more of our eyes, though we waited at the other end of the passage perilous until our bodies grew chill in our sailor suits, and the mists came rolling up from the water-meadows. It was easy to crouch down by the mouth of the pipe, and hear the water lap-lapping in the dark against the echoing sides of the tunnel, but our ears could tell us nothing, and as we went home we would speculate in whispers as to the fate of the missing vessel. Had it foundered on some treacherous rock, or was there some mysterious outlet unknown to man, through which it had escaped us? Even while we spoke it might be nodding on merrily towards the night and the stars, through a new, strange country that no one could find in daylight fashion.
In truth, there was no game like this, appealing alike to mind and body, and fraught with surprises and enchanting side-issues of play. We might launch our vessel at dawn for Babylon, and night would find it dreaming by some South Sea isle, or lying a shattered wreck on the coast of Brazil.
Doubtless to the grown-up observer, who had seen the great sea dotted with little ships, our gutter mishaps and adventures on puddles were of small importance. But as becomes the children of an island race, we played this game with a strange earnestness, and though our boats were small, we knew that they were large enough for little boys to go roaming in through the long day. And that was all that mattered.
A REPERTORY THEATRE
Like most great movements in art, it had but a modest beginning. On a memorable day one of my brothers was looking in the window of a little toy-shop when he discovered some of those fascinating sheets of characters to which Stevenson has devoted a charming essay. He happened to have money in his pocket (it was indeed a memorable day), and he brought home his treasure-trove with the air of a capitalist who has made a wise investment. Schoolroom society approved his enterprise with enthusiasm. We knew nothing about “The Woodman’s Hut,” the play to which the characters in question belonged; it was enough for us that these figures of men and women were clearly