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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
227
I
asked
young
George,
the
farm-boy,
what
bird
went
like
this:
I
whistled
it.
He
looked
abashed
and
said
a
Chaffinch.
I
told
Miss
Lucy
who
said
George
was
a
silly
boy,
and
Miss
Lucy
told
Farmer
Whaley
who
said
George
ought
to
know
better--it
was
a
Mistle-Thrush.
The
letters
are
brought
us
each
morning
by
a
tramp
with
a
game
leg
who
secretes
his
Majesty's
Mails
in
a
shabby
bowler
hat,
the
small
packages
and
parcels
going
to
the
roomy
tail
pocket
of
a
dirty
morning
coat.
A
decayed
gentleman
of
much
interest
to
us.
June
3.
We
have
made
a
little
nest
in
the
wood
and
I
lead
her
into
it
by
the
hand
over
the
briars
and
undergrowth
as
if
conducting
her
to
the
grand
piano
on
a
concert
platform.
I
kissed
her....
Then
in
a
second
we
switch
back
to
ordinary
conversation.
In
an
ordinary
conversational
voice
I
ask
the
trees,
the
birds,
the
sky.
"What's
become
of
all
the
gold?"
"What's
become
of
Waring?"
"What
is
Love?
'Tis
not
hereafter."
"Where
are
the
snows
of
yesteryear?"
"Who
killed
Cock
Robin?"
"Who's
who?"
And
so
on
thro'
all
the
great
interrogatives
that
I
could
think
of
till
she
stopped
my
mouth
with
a
kiss
and
we
both
laughed.
"Miss
Penderkins,"
I
say.
"Miss
Penderlet,
Miss
Pender-au-lait,
Miss
Pender-filings."
What
do
I
mean?
she
cries.
"What's
the
point
of
the
names?
Why
take
my
name
in
vain?
Why?
What?
How?"
She
does
not
know
that
clever
young
men
sometimes
trade
on
their
reputation
among
simpler
folk
by
pretending
that
meaningless
remarks
conceal
some
subtlety
or
cynicism,
some
little
Attic
snap.
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