The Journal of a Disappointed Man

May 30. A brilliantly sunny day. This funny old farm-house where we are staying quite delights me. It is pleasant, too, to dawdle over dressing, to put away shaving tackle for a day or so, to jump out of bed in the morning and thrust my head out of the window into the fresh and stock-scented air of the garden, listen to the bird chorus or watch a "scrap" in the poultry-run. Then all unashamed, I dress myself before a dear old lady in a flowery print gown concealing 4 thin legs and over the top of the mirror a piece of lace just like a bonnet, caught up in front by a piece of pink ribbon. On the walls Pear's Soap Annuals, on a side table Swiss Family Robinson and Children of the New Forest. Then there are rats under the floors, two wooden staircases which wind up out of sight, two white dairies, iron hapses on all the doors and a privy at the top of the orchard. (Tell me--how do you explain the psychosis of a being who on a day must have seized hammer and nail and an almanac picture of a woman in the snow with a basket of goodies--"An Errand of Mercy"--carried all three to the top of the orchard and nailed the picture up on the dirty wall in the semi-darkness of an earth-closet?) Got up quite early before breakfast and went birds'-nesting.... It would take too long and be too sentimental for me to record my feelings on looking into the first nest I found--a Chaffinch's, the first wild bird's eggs I have seen for many years. As I stood with an egg between thumb and forefinger, my memories flocked down like white birds and surrounded me. I remained still, fed them with my thoughts and let them perch upon my person--a second St. Francis of Assisi. Then I shoo'ed them all away and prepared for the more palpitating enjoyment of to-day.