DOI article:
Dowie, Ménie Muriel: My Note-Book in the Weald
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.25498#0047
By Menie Muriel Dowie 43
looks the man who tells you of the one “ woman in the world,”
so looks the poet who describes his last sonnet, so look the faces
of them that dream of heart’s desire.
“ You see there’s a deal of preservin’ done round here, and
when a labourin’ man has say six or seven of a family and takes
’is nine shillin’ a week, as some of ’em do in winter, an’ ’as coal to
find and boots to keep on the children, well, ’e ’as to git it some-
where, ’asn’t he, Miss ? You can’t wonder that some of ’em steps
out of a night an’ nooses a brace of pheasants.” I maintained a
steady but an unexaggerated air of sympathy ; there was no use
in the waiter putting it off, we had heard the utilitarian side,
what about “ them as does it for the love o’ sport ? ” But I was
much too wary to ask ! “ An’ you see, Miss, since this frozen
meat come in, why eighteenpence ’ll buy a man ’is leg of lamb
at the stall. As for the poorer parts, they pretty near give it
away of a Saturday night, an’ for two shillin’ he’ll get what’ll
keep ’is family in meat for a week.”
Very well, if I had to wait, I could wait.
“ Every bit as good, Miss,” in answer to my query. “ Of
course, it wants a knack in cookin’, it don’t want to be put in no
fierce oven ; you want to ’ang it in the kitchen and thor it out
gradual, an’ it’ll make twice its size; then, if it’s nicely basted, you
won’t want to eat no sweeter bit of meat.”
“ Then they never eat the pheasants themselves ? ” I remarked,
with the air of one whose mind is on the central problem. “ I
don’t wonder, for I think a pheasant is nothing to rave about. I’d
as soon have a chicken.”
“If you’d ever tried one stuffed with chopped celery, then
closed up so the water don’t get to it in a bit of nice paste, and
boiled for about two hours, Miss,” said the waiter, in tender
remonstrance, “ you’d never say that again.” I was on the point
of
looks the man who tells you of the one “ woman in the world,”
so looks the poet who describes his last sonnet, so look the faces
of them that dream of heart’s desire.
“ You see there’s a deal of preservin’ done round here, and
when a labourin’ man has say six or seven of a family and takes
’is nine shillin’ a week, as some of ’em do in winter, an’ ’as coal to
find and boots to keep on the children, well, ’e ’as to git it some-
where, ’asn’t he, Miss ? You can’t wonder that some of ’em steps
out of a night an’ nooses a brace of pheasants.” I maintained a
steady but an unexaggerated air of sympathy ; there was no use
in the waiter putting it off, we had heard the utilitarian side,
what about “ them as does it for the love o’ sport ? ” But I was
much too wary to ask ! “ An’ you see, Miss, since this frozen
meat come in, why eighteenpence ’ll buy a man ’is leg of lamb
at the stall. As for the poorer parts, they pretty near give it
away of a Saturday night, an’ for two shillin’ he’ll get what’ll
keep ’is family in meat for a week.”
Very well, if I had to wait, I could wait.
“ Every bit as good, Miss,” in answer to my query. “ Of
course, it wants a knack in cookin’, it don’t want to be put in no
fierce oven ; you want to ’ang it in the kitchen and thor it out
gradual, an’ it’ll make twice its size; then, if it’s nicely basted, you
won’t want to eat no sweeter bit of meat.”
“ Then they never eat the pheasants themselves ? ” I remarked,
with the air of one whose mind is on the central problem. “ I
don’t wonder, for I think a pheasant is nothing to rave about. I’d
as soon have a chicken.”
“If you’d ever tried one stuffed with chopped celery, then
closed up so the water don’t get to it in a bit of nice paste, and
boiled for about two hours, Miss,” said the waiter, in tender
remonstrance, “ you’d never say that again.” I was on the point
of