Sunny Side (Version 2) — Chapter 3: Summer Days
III. SUMMER DAYS
A SONG FOR THE SUMMER
_Is it raining_?
Never mind-- Think how much the birdies love it!
See them in their dozens drawn, Dancing, to the croquet lawn-- Could our little friends have dined If there'd been no worms above it?
_Is it murky_?
What of that, If the Owls are fairly perky?
Just imagine you were one-- Wouldn't you _detest_ the sun?
I'm pretending I'm a Bat, And I know I _like_ it murky.
_Is it chilly_?
After all, We must not forget the Poodle.
If the days were really hot, Could he wear _one_ woolly spot?
Could he even keep his shawl?
No, he'd shave the whole caboodle.
THE SEASON'S PROSPECTS
The great question in the Mallory family just now is whether Dick will get into the eleven this year.
Confident as he is himself, he is taking no risks.
"We're going to put the net up to-morrow," he said to me as soon as I arrived, "and then you'll be able to bowl to me.
How long are you staying?"
"Till to-night," I said quickly.
"Rot!
You're fixed up here till Tuesday any how."
"My dear Dick, I've come down for a few days' rest.
If the weather permits, I may have the croquet things out one afternoon and try a round, or possibly--" "I don't believe you _can_ bowl," said Bobby rudely.
Bobby is twelve--five years younger than Dick.
It is not my place to smack Bobby's head, but _somebody_ might do it for him.
"Then that just shows how little you know about it," I retorted.
"In a match last September I went on to bowl--" "Why?"
"I knew the captain," I explained.
"Well, as I say, he asked me to go on to bowl, and I took four wickets for thirteen runs.
There!"
"Good man," said Dick.
"Was it against a girls' school?"
said Bobby.
(You know, Bobby is simply _asking_ for it.
) "It was not.
Nor were children of twelve allowed in without their perambulators."
"Well, anyhow," said Bobby, "I bet Phyllis can bowl better than you."
"Is this true?"
I said to Phyllis.
I asked her, because in a general way my bowling is held to be superior to that of girls of fifteen.
Of course, she might be something special.
"I can bowl Bobby out," she said modestly.
I looked at Bobby in surprise and then shook my head sadly.
"You jolly well shut up," he said, turning indignantly to his sister.
"Just because you did it once when the sun was in my eyes--" "Bobby, Bobby," I said, "this is painful hearing.
Let us be thankful that we don't have to play against girls' schools.
Let us--" But Bobby was gone.
Goaded to anger, he had put his hands in his pockets and made the general observation "Rice-pudding"--an observation inoffensive enough to a stranger, but evidently of such deep, private significance to Phyllis that it was necessary for him to head a pursuit into the shrubbery without further delay.
"The children are gone," I said to Dick.
"Now we can discuss the prospects for the season in peace."
I took up "The Sportsman" again.
"I see that Kent is going to--" "The prospects are all right," said Dick, "if only I can get into form soon enough.
Last year I didn't get going till the end of June.
By the way, what sort of stuff do you bowl?"
"Ordinary sort of stuff," I said, "with one or two bounces in it.
Do you see that Surrey--" "Fast or slow?"
"Slow--that is, you know, when I _do_ bowl at all.
I'm not quite sure this season whether I hadn't better--" "Slow," said Dick thoughtfully; "that's really what I want.
I want lots of that."
"You must get Phyllis to bowl to you," I said with detachment.
"You know, I shouldn't be surprised if Lancashire--" "My dear man, girls can't bowl.
She fields jolly well, though."
"What about your father?"
"His bowling days are rather over.
He was in the eleven, you know, thirty years ago.
So there's really nobody but--" "One's bowling days soon get over," I hastened to agree.
But I know now exactly what the prospects of the season--or, at any rate, of the first week of it--are.
MR.
MALLORY
The prospects here are on the whole encouraging.
To dwell upon the bright side first, there will be half-an-hour's casual bowling, and an hour and a half's miscellaneous coaching, every day.
On the other hand, some of his best plants will be disturbed, while there is more than a chance that he may lose the services of a library window.
MRS.
MALLORY
The prospects here are much as last year, except that her youngest born, Joan, is now five, and consequently rather more likely to wander in the way of a cricket ball or fall down in front of the roller than she was twelve months ago.
Otherwise Mrs. Mallory faces the approaching season with calm, if not with complete appreciation.
DICK
Of Dick's prospects there is no need to speak at length.
He will have two hours' batting every day against, from a batsman's point of view, ideal bowling, and in addition the whole-hearted admiration of all of us.
In short, the outlook here is distinctly hopeful.
PHYLLIS
The prospects of this player are, from her own point of view, bright, as she will be allowed to field for two hours a day to the beloved Dick.
She is also fully qualified now to help with the heavy roller.
A new experiment is to be tried this season, and she will be allowed to bowl for an odd five-minutes at the end of Dick's innings to _me_.
BOBBY
enters upon the coming season with confidence, as he thinks there is a chance of my bowling to him too; but he is mistaken.
As before, he will be in charge of the heavy roller, and he will also be required to slacken the ropes of the net at the end of the day.
His prospects, however, are certainly improved this season, as he will be qualified to bowl for the whole two hours, but only on the distinct understanding (with Phyllis) that he does his own fielding for himself.
Of the prospects of JOAN
I have already spoken above.
There remain only the prospects of MYSELF
which are frankly rotten.
They consist chiefly of two hours' bowling to the batting of Dick (who hits them back very hard), and ten minutes' batting to the bowling of Phyllis (slow, mild) and Bobby (fast wides);
for Dick, having been ordered by the captain not to strain himself by trying to bowl, is not going to try.
It is extremely doubtful whether Bobby will approve of my action, while if he or Phyllis should, by an unlucky accident, get me out, I should never hear the last of it.
In this case, however, there must be added to Bobby's prospects the possibility of getting his head definitely smacked.
Fortunately--it is my only consolation--the season will be a short one.
It ends on Tuesday.
THE FIRST GAME
There comes a Day (I can hear it coming), One of those glorious deep blue days, When larks are singing and bees are humming, And Earth gives voice in a thousand ways-- Then I, my friends, I too shall sing, And hum a foolish little thing, And whistle like (but not too like) a blackbird in the Spring.
There looms a Day (I can feel it looming;
Yes, it will be in a month or less), When all the flowers in the world are blooming And Nature flutters her fairest dress-- Then I, my friends, I too shall wear A blazer that will make them stare, And brush--this is official: I shall also brush my hair.
It is the day that I watch for yearly, Never before has it come so late;
But now I've only a month--no, merely A couple of fortnights left to wait;
And then (to make the matter plain) I hold--at last!
--a bat again: Dear Hobbs!
the weeks this summer--think!
the _weeks_ I've lived in vain!
I see already the first ball twisting Over the green as I take my stand, I hear already long-on insisting It wasn't a chance that came to hand-- Or no; I see it miss the bat And strike me on the knee, whereat Some fool, some silly fool at point, says blandly, "How was that?"
Then, scouting later, I hold a hot-un At deep square-leg from the local Fry, And at short mid-on to the village Scotton I snap a skimmer some six foot high-- Or else, perhaps, I get the ball, Upon the thumb, or not at all, Or right into the hands, and then, lorblessme, let it fall.
But what care I?
It's the game that calls me-- Simply to be on the field of play;
How can it matter what fate befalls me, With ten good fellows and one good day?
...
But still, I rather hope spectators will, Observing any lack or skill, Remark, "This is his first appearance."
Yes, I _hope_ they will.
THE COMPETITION SPIRIT
About six weeks ago a Canadian gentleman named Smith arrived in the Old Country (England).
He knew a man who knew a man who knew a man ...
and so on for a bit ...
who knew a man who knew a man who knew me.
Letters passed; negotiations ensued; and about a week after he had first set foot in the Mother City (London) Smith and I met at my Club for lunch.
I may confess now that I was nervous.
I think I expected a man in a brown shirt and leggings, who would ask me to put it "right there," and tell me I was "some Englishman."
However, he turned out to be exactly like anybody else in London.
Whether he found me exactly like anybody else in Canada I don't know.
Anyway, we had a very pleasant lunch, and arranged to play golf together on the next day.
Whatever else is true of Canada there can be no doubt that it turns out delightful golfers.
Smith proved to be just the best golfer I had ever met, being, when at the top of his form, almost exactly as good as I was.
Hole after hole we halved in a mechanical eight.
If by means of a raking drive and four perfect brassies at the sixth he managed to get one up for a moment, then at the short seventh a screaming iron and three consummate approaches would make me square again.
Occasionally he would, by superhuman play, do a hole in bogey; but only to crack at the next, and leave me, at the edge of the green, to play "one off eleven."
It was, in fact, a ding-dong struggle all the way; and for his one-hole victory in the morning I had my revenge with a one-hole victory in the afternoon.
By the end of a month we must have played a dozen rounds of this nature.
I always had a feeling that I was really a better golfer than he, and this made me friendly towards his game.
I would concede him short putts which I should have had no difficulty in missing myself; if he lost his ball I would beg him to drop another and go on with the hole; if he got into a bad place in a bunker I would assure him it was ground under repair.
He was just as friendly in refusing to take these advantages, just as pleasant in offering similar indulgences to me.
I thought at first it was part of his sporting way, but it turned out that (absurdly enough) he also was convinced that he was really the better golfer of the two, and could afford these amenities.
One day he announced that he was going back to Canada.
"We must have a last game," he said, "and this one must be decisive."
"For the championship of the Empire," I agreed.
"Let's buy a little cup and play for it.
I've never won anything at golf yet, and I should love to see a little cup on the dinner-table every night."
"You can't come to dinner in Canada _every_ night," he pointed out.
"It would be so expensive for you."
Well, the cup was bought, engraved "The Empire Challenge Cup," and played for last Monday.
"This," said Smith, "is a serious game, and we must play all out.
No giving away anything, no waiving the rules.
The Empire is at stake.
The effeteness of the Mother Country is about to be put to the proof.
Proceed."
It wasn't the most pleasant of our games.
The spirit of the cup hung over it and depressed us.
At the third hole I had an eighteen-inch putt for a half.
"That's all right," said Smith forgetfully; and then added, "Perhaps you'd better put it in, though."
Of course I missed.
On the fifth green he was about to brush away a leaf.
"That's illegal," I said sharply, "you must pick it up; you mayn't brush it away," and after a fierce argument on the point he putted hastily--and badly.
At the eighteenth tee we were all square and hardly on speaking terms.
The fate of the Mother Country depended upon the result of this hole.
I drove a long one, the longest of the day, slightly hooked.
"Good shot," said Smith with an effort.
He pressed and foozled badly.
I
tried not to look pleased.
We found his ball in a thick clump of heather.
With a grim look on his face, he took out his niblick....
I stayed by him and helped him count up to eight.
"Where's your ball?"
he growled.
"A long way on," I said reproachfully.
"I wish you'd hurry up.
The poor thing will be getting cold."
He got to work again.
We had another count together up to fifteen.
Sometimes there would be a gleam of white at the top of the heather for a moment and then it would fade away.
"How many?"
I asked some minutes later.
"About thirty.
But I don't care, I'm going to get the little beast into the hole if it takes me all night."
He went on hacking.
I had lost interest in the performance, for the cup was mine, but I did admire his Colonial grit.
"Got it," he cried suddenly, and the ball sailed out on to the pretty.
Another shot put him level with me.
"Thirty-two?"
I asked.
"About," he said coldly.
I began to look for my ball.
It had got tired of waiting and had hidden itself.
Smith joined gloomily in the search.
"This is absurd," I said, after three or four minutes.
"By jove!"
said Smith, suddenly brightening up.
"If your ball's lost I win after all."
"Nonsense; you've given the hole up," I protested.
"You don't know how many you've played.
According to the rules, if I ask you how many, and you give wrong information--" "It's thirty-five," he said promptly.
"I don't believe you counted."
"Call it forty-five then.
There's nothing to prevent my calling it more than it really is.
If it was really only forty, then I'm counting five occasions when the ball rolled over as I was addressing it.
That's very generous of me.
Actually I'm doubtful if the ball did roll over five times, but I say it did in order to be on the safe side."
He looked at his watch.
"And if you don't find your ball in thirty seconds, you lose the hole."
It was ingenious, but the Mother Country can be ingenious too.
"How many have you played exactly?"
I asked.
"Be careful."
"Forty-five," he said.
"Exactly."
"Right."
I took my niblick and swung at the heather.
"Bother," I said.
"Missed it.
Two."
"Hallo!
Have you found it?"
"I have.
It's somewhere in this field.
There's no rule which insists that you shall hit the ball, or even that you shall hit near the ball, or even that you shall see the ball when you hit at it.
Lots of old gentlemen shut their eyes and miss the sphere.
I've missed.
In five minutes I shall miss again."
"But what's the point?"
"The point, dear friend," I smiled, "is that after each stroke one is allowed five minutes in which to find the ball.
I have forty-three strokes in hand; that gives me three hours and thirty-five minutes in which to look for it.
At regular intervals of five minutes I shall swing my club and probably miss. It's four-thirty now; at eight o'clock, unless I find my ball before, I shall be playing the like.
And if you are a sportsman," I added, "you will bring me out some tea in half an hour."
* * * * * At six-thirty I was still looking--and swinging.
Smith then came to terms and agreed to share the cup with me for the first year.
He goes back to Canada to-morrow, and will spread the good news there that the Old Country can still hold its own in resource, determination and staying power.
But next year we are going to play friendly golf again.
THE FIRST TEE
(MULLION)
It is the place, it is the place, my soul!
(Blow, bugle, blow; sing, triangle; toot, fife!
) Down to the sea the close-cropped pastures roll, Couches behind yon sandy hill the goal Whereat, it may be, after ceaseless strife The "Colonel" shall find peace, and Henry say, "Your hole" ...
Caddie, give me my driver, caddie, The sun shines hot, but there's half a breeze, Enough to rustle the tree-tops, laddie, Only supposing there were some trees;
The year's at the full and the morn's at eleven, It's a wonderful day just straight from Heaven, And this is a hole I can do in seven-- Caddie, my driver, please.
Three times a day from now till Monday week (Ten peerless days in all) I take my stand Vested in some _dégagé_ mode of breek (The chess-board touch, with squares that almost speak), And lightly sketch my Slice into the Sand, As based on bigger men, but much of it unique....
Caddie, give me my driver, caddie, Note my style on the first few tees;
Duncan fashioned my wrist-work, laddie, Taylor taught me to twist my knees;
I've a beautiful swing that I learnt from Vardon (I practise it sometimes down the garden-- "My fault!
Sorry!
I _beg_ your pardon!"
)-- Caddie, my driver, please.
Only ten little days, in which to do So much!
e. g. , the twelfth: ah, it was there The Secretary met his Waterloo, But perished gamely, playing twenty-two;
His clubs _(ten little days_!
) lie bleaching where Sea-poppies blow _(ten days_) and wheeling sea-birds mew....
Caddie, give me my driver, caddie, Let us away with thoughts like these;
A week and a half is a lifetime, laddie, The day that's here is the day to seize;
_Carpe diem_--yes, that's the motto, "Work be jiggered!"
and likewise "What ho!"
I'M NOT GOING BACK TILL I'VE JOLLY WELL GOT TO!
Caddie, my driver, please.
THE ENCHANTED CASTLE
There are warm days in London when even a window-box fails to charm, and one longs for the more open spaces of the country.
Besides, one wants to see how the other flowers are getting on.
It is on these days that we travel to our Castle of Stopes; as the crow flies, fifteen miles away.
Indeed, that is the way we get to it, for it is a castle in the air.
And when we are come to it, Celia is always in a pink sunbonnet gathering roses lovingly, and I, not very far off, am speaking strongly to somebody or other about something I want done.
By-and-by I shall go into the library and work ...
with an occasional glance through the open window at Celia.
To think that a month ago we were quite happy with a few pink geraniums!
Sunday, a month ago, was hot.
"Let's take train somewhere," said Celia, "and have lunch under a hedge."
"I know a lovely place for hedges," I said.
"I know a lovely tin of potted grouse," said Celia, and she went off to cut some sandwiches.
By twelve o'clock we were getting out of the train.
The first thing we came to was a golf course, and Celia had to drag me past it.
Then we came to a wood, and I had to drag her through it.
Another mile along a lane, and then we both stopped together.
"Oh!"
we said.
It was a cottage, the cottage of a dream.
And by a cottage I mean, not four plain rooms and a kitchen, but one surprising room opening into another; rooms all on different levels and of different shapes, with delightful places to bump your head on; open fireplaces; a large square hall, oak-beamed, where your guests can hang about after breakfast, while deciding whether to play golf or sit in the garden.
Yet all so cunningly disposed that from outside it looks only a cottage or, at most, two cottages persuaded into one.
And, of course, we only saw it from outside.
The little drive, determined to get there as soon as possible, pushed its way straight through an old barn, and arrived at the door simultaneously with the flagged lavender walk for the humble who came on foot.
The rhododendrons were ablaze beneath the south windows; a little orchard was running wild on the west; there was a hint at the back of a clean-cut lawn.
Also, you remember, there was a golf course, less than two miles away.
"Oh," said Celia with a deep sigh, "but we must live here."
An Irish terrier ran out to inspect us.
I bent down and patted it.
"With a dog," I added.
"Isn't it all lovely?
I wonder who it belongs to, and if--" "If he'd like to give it to us."
"Perhaps he would if he saw us and admired us very much," said Celia hopefully.
"I don't think Mr. Barlow is that sort of man," I said.
"An excellent fellow, but not one to take these sudden fancies."
"Mr. Barlow?
How do you know his name?"
"I have these surprising intuitions," I said modestly.
"The way the chimneys stand up--" "I know," cried Celia.
"The dog's collar."
"Right, Watson.
And the name of the house is Stopes."
