DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62134#0205
COMPANY OF ODD-FELLOWS.
197
of the wild, park-like Garden. It was a lovely, joyous bit
of poetry.
I understand that these birds come at a certain time
each Spring, for a few days, to particular spots in the
English Garden, and then again disappear entirely. They
come in search of a peculiar kind of food. They fly many
miles from a lake among the mountains; each night
returning to roost in their Alpine home.
The other evening, upon this same bridge, I had another
pleasant peep into the lives of small wroodland creatures.
A brisk squirrel suddenly dropped down from a tree before
me—glanced at me with his roguish black eyes—set up his
tawny, bushy tail—paused for a moment, as if gazing at,
and meditating upon, the slavery endured by the poor
sentinel, pacing with glittering bayonet before the ducal
palace; then sprang nimbly up again upon the tree, dis-
appearing in the network of branches.
The garcleneresses also announce that Spring is at hand.
Coming suddenly upon a group of these the other day in
the English Garden, I was considerably staggered for the
first moment with regard to their sex. All wore hats-
broad-brimmed and narrow-brimmed—slouch hats, Tyrolean
hats, straw hats, and felt hats and beaver hats—green,
grey, black, and brown. All wore handkerchiefs tied
beneath them hats—red, orange, blue-and-white, striped,
spotted, and checked. All wore very short, thick petticoats,
and very clumsy shoes—some even big boots—and many
wore coats—great-coats or jackets—drab, brown, and black.
All had rakes in their hands, and were raking away heaps
and heaps of dead leaves as fast as they could rake. Their
faces were the faces of old men, not of women.
Never, certainly, did I encounter a more astounding
company of odd-fellows.
Smiling to myself, I passed this group of gardeneresses,
197
of the wild, park-like Garden. It was a lovely, joyous bit
of poetry.
I understand that these birds come at a certain time
each Spring, for a few days, to particular spots in the
English Garden, and then again disappear entirely. They
come in search of a peculiar kind of food. They fly many
miles from a lake among the mountains; each night
returning to roost in their Alpine home.
The other evening, upon this same bridge, I had another
pleasant peep into the lives of small wroodland creatures.
A brisk squirrel suddenly dropped down from a tree before
me—glanced at me with his roguish black eyes—set up his
tawny, bushy tail—paused for a moment, as if gazing at,
and meditating upon, the slavery endured by the poor
sentinel, pacing with glittering bayonet before the ducal
palace; then sprang nimbly up again upon the tree, dis-
appearing in the network of branches.
The garcleneresses also announce that Spring is at hand.
Coming suddenly upon a group of these the other day in
the English Garden, I was considerably staggered for the
first moment with regard to their sex. All wore hats-
broad-brimmed and narrow-brimmed—slouch hats, Tyrolean
hats, straw hats, and felt hats and beaver hats—green,
grey, black, and brown. All wore handkerchiefs tied
beneath them hats—red, orange, blue-and-white, striped,
spotted, and checked. All wore very short, thick petticoats,
and very clumsy shoes—some even big boots—and many
wore coats—great-coats or jackets—drab, brown, and black.
All had rakes in their hands, and were raking away heaps
and heaps of dead leaves as fast as they could rake. Their
faces were the faces of old men, not of women.
Never, certainly, did I encounter a more astounding
company of odd-fellows.
Smiling to myself, I passed this group of gardeneresses,