The Journal of a Disappointed Man

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.