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T h e Book of Ethics of Bar Hebraeus
The Book of Ethics of Bar Hebraeus

EDITED BY PAUL BEDJAN

GORGIAS PRESS
2007
 First Gorgias Press Edition, 2007

The special contents of this edition are copyright © 2007 by

Gorgias Press LLC

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a re-
trieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechani-
cal, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written
permission of Gorgias Press LLC.
Published in the United States of America by Gorgias Press LLC, New Jersey

This edition is a facsimile reprint of the

original edition published by W. Drugulin,
Leipzig, 1898.

ISBN-13: 978-1-59333-421-5
ISBN-10:1-59333-421-4

GORGIAS PRESS
46 Orris Ave., Piscataway, NJ 08854 USA
www.gorgiaspress.com

T h e paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the

American National Standards.

Printed in the LTnited States of America

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 XII
The Old Wood-House

The old wood-house stands on the lee-side of a belt of trees, part of

the Squirrels’ Highway, as we call it, that runs down one side of the
Flower-patch, sheltering it from the bleak north winds.
Picture to yourself a building rather smaller than a very small
church, built of great blocks of grey stone, with walls nearly two feet
thick in places, a red-tiled pointed roof, a door at one end; and in
case the walls should prove too flimsy to stand the winter gales,
huge stone buttresses prop it up on the “off” side (i.e. the side
where the ground goes on running downhill), lest the structure
should take it into its head to run down-hill too!
In place of a spire, above the door, a weathercock swings its
arrow to the winds—at least, it would swing it on any well-conducted
apex, but being merely mine it permanently points south. Not that it
is particular where it points; all it asks is to be left in peace to close
its eyes in meditative contemplation of the landscape. We
occasionally get a ladder and then a long stick, and move it round,
trying to urge it to deeds of derring-do, but it falls asleep the
moment our ministrations cease.
The last time, it was a neighbouring farmer who climbed the
ladder to reason with it, after I had assured him there was no
penalty under the Defence of the Realm Act for regulating
weathercocks. He was a bit reluctant to touch it at first; as he said,
what with clocks not being allowed to tick as they pleased, and the
time being jiggered with anyhow, you didn’t know where you was
with nothing. But once I had taken full responsibility for the affair, he
went up with right goodwill, and—forgetting that it was the arrow
alone that needed to move—he gave a sturdy tug to the north,
south, east, and west arrangement, and sent the arms of that in all
directions.
Then when we wanted to fix it up again, the question arose,
which was the north? A local light supposed to know everything,
who chanced to be passing, was summoned for consultation. After
carefully surveying the various corners of heaven, as though looking
for enemy air-craft, he said he didn’t know as he could say ezackly
which wur the north, unless he had summat to tell him (we all felt
like that, too!); but if we would a-float a needle on the top of a basin
of water, then either the point of the needle—or—le’s see? maybe
’twas the heye, he wasn’t quite certain which—would point to the
north, for sure.
Well, all hands rushed for basins and needles, as you may
suppose; because, whether it was the point or the eye didn’t matter
much, since we knew the direction in which the north lay; all we
wanted was the precise angle. But alas, every needle promptly sank
to the bottom of the basin, without so much as a kick!
Eventually we refixed the north pole approximately, pending such
time as the Head of Affairs should arrive, when I knew we could rely
on the small compass at the end of his watch chain. But Virginia,
who uses the weathercock more than most of us, as she sees it from
her bedroom window, and says it is so useful to dress by, was
lugubriously certain his watch would be stolen on the next journey
down, and begged me to place the arrow—still asleep—pointing
south; even an approximate south, she said, might at least help to
keep her spirits up, when a northeaster was blowing.
And south it remaineth unto this day, despite all our
blandishments, and probably will do so till the end of the War, when
the retirement of the Food Controller—who, presumably, supervises
weathercocks—may permit of our using a modicum of grease.
 The old wood-house (which, by the way, was originally used for
coals, though no trace of this is left upon its clean, lime-washed
interior) is the first building you run across as you enter by the top
gate, which is the widest entrance we possess. Here you step from
the lane right into a tiny larch plantation, and the path to the
cottage is arched over with the boughs of the trees, while the brown
cones crunch under your boots, or roll away down the steep incline
of the path when your foot touches them. It was among these trees
that a small clearing was made in the distant past to accommodate
this particular out-building; though why the coal-house was
considered the most artistic bit of bric-à-brac to greet you as you
enter the main gate is not clear.
The actual outline of the building is not remarkable, being merely
four walls and a pointed roof, with a door and a window; but at least
it looks simple, dignified, and solid, and what it lacks in architectural
decoration has been supplied by Nature herself. When we first saw
it, we called it the private chapel; but later on I found Abigail & Co.
calling it the picture palace.
At any rate, there it stands, shadowed by great oaks seemingly
immovable, with their gnarled wide-stretching arms spread as in
blessing over the lowlier woodland things; a big Spanish chestnut,
though tardy in coming into leaf, scatters worthless burrs around
later on, with generous goodwill; a walnut-tree invites the passer-by
to rub its aromatic leaves, and is there any treasure-trove quite like
the walnuts that one finds in the long wet grass on a windy autumn
morning? Larches and firs make shady colonnades, with their
straight uprising shafts, and dark drooping branches; silver birches,
always graceful, no matter how they may have had to twist their
trunks to accommodate themselves to their environment, give
lightness and vivacity to the whole.
Incense there is in abundance. The warm resinous odour of the
larches is always abroad; mountain-ash-trees load the air with scent
in the late spring, and are ablaze with crimson in August. Two or
three lichen-covered, twisted old apple-trees hang out bunches of
pale-green mistletoe, for all to see during the winter months, and
then surprise one with a bride-like flush of white and pink in the
spring. Where the sun is brightest, a big hawthorn carpets the
ground with white petals in May.
Then there are the lovely limes—and the lime-tree is much more
of a stately lady than is realized by those who only know the sad,
maimed and distorted stumps that disfigure suburban gardens in
London. But see this lime-tree that forms a link in the Squirrels’
Highway! Its trunk measures about ten feet round. Under the
shadow of its drooping far-sweeping branches you could give a small
Sunday-school treat. Though the lowest branches spring from the
trunk at least nine feet from the ground, their far ends touch the
grass, forming a complete tent of translucent green and gold as you
look upwards, through a multitude of layers of leaves, to a sun you
cannot see, but which seems to have turned the whole tree into a
rippling mass of molten colour. And when it shakes out its bunches
of scented yellow blossoms, and trails them by the thousand down
each branch and stem, then indeed the lime-tree is a lovely lady, and
the bees and the butterflies come from far and near to pay her
homage.
And each tree has a special and distinct winter-beauty of its own
in the outline of branches and stems and twigs—a beauty that is lost
to us once the leaves appear, but which suggests an exquisite
etching in winter when the dark lines are silhouetted against the sky.
The most graceful is the birch, with its light tracery of fine filaments,
often with tassel-like catkins dangling at the end. The oak and beech
give the impression of enormous strength in the ease with which
they fling outright their massive arms with seldom any tendency to
droop.
And each tree has its special and distinct melody when the wind
signals the forest orchestra; there is the sea-surge of the beeches,
the swish of the heavily plumed firs, the rain-sound of the twinkling
aspen, the soft whisper of the birches, the æolian hum of the pines,
and the sibilant rustle of the dead leaves still clinging to the winter
oak.

Outside the wood-house door there is a little clearing adjoining

the grove of trees, where a perfect thicket of wild flowers smiles at
you for the greater part of the year. First come the early violets
clustering about the roots of the trees, and in the shelter of the grey
rock fragments; while primroses dot the grass with their crinkly
leaves, and then send up pink stems covered with silver sheen, and
delicately scented flowers each as big as a penny. Oxlips grow on
the bank that borders one side of the clearing.
Later, it is an expanse of moon-daisies—thousands of them
swaying the whole day long to the motion of the wind like the ever-
restless surface of the sea. And with the moon-daisies are
buttercups, crimson clover, rosy-purple knapweed, spikes of pink
orchis delicately pencilled with mauve—all trying to grow to the
height of the big yellow-eyed daisies; while here and there ruddy
spears of sorrel out-top them all.
Tall grasses of every kind are here, some like a fine translucent
veil of purple, others grey, or a pinky-green; some shaking out
yellow or heliotrope stamens; some ever trembling like the quaking-
grass—but all mingling with the tall flowers, softening the surface of
the mass of white blossoms that seem in the sunshine almost too
dazzling to look upon, were it not for the mist of the grasses that
envelops them.
Underneath the tall flowers there is a wonderful carpet of lesser-
growing things—masses of trefoil, the yellow blossoms often
touched with fiery orange; patches of heath bed-straw, with its
myriads of tiny gleaming white flowers, cling to any spot where the
grasses leave it room to breathe, its first cousin, the woodruff,
preferring a shadier part of the bank at the side—the bank where
the wild strawberries grow to a luscious size, and whortleberry
bushes add a touch of wildness to the spot.
 The smaller clovers, both yellow and white, seem to thrive under
the bigger flowers, where most else would suffocate. Pink-tipped
daisies bloom wherever they can find room to hold up a little face.
Rosy-pink vetches wander about at pleasure, and pretend they are
going to do great things when they start to climb the stems of the
moon-daisies.
Where the big fir trees throw a shadow, and the sun only touches
the grass when it is getting round to the west, foxgloves send up
shafts of colour and the pale-blue spiked veronica carpets the
ground.
Still further back, where the sunshine never penetrates, even here
something strives to give beauty to barrenness and soften austerity,
for the small-leaved ivy starts to climb the hard tree trunks,
undoubtedly one of the most beautiful of the many living things that
are neighbour to the old wood-house.
And always in the grass there lie the snapped-off twigs and
branches of the larches, with their brown picots up stems that are
studded with exquisite cones. We strive hard to better Nature, to
make new designs, to evolve fresh beauty; but with all our skill and
experiments we have yet to improve on the cone as a design, with
its rhythmic re-iteration of the one small motif and the perfection of
its proportions. In my mind it ranks with the smoked-silver seed ball
of the dandelion, both of them examples of absolute beauty derived
from the simplest of outlines.

The walls of the wood-house have their share of green; on the

north side an ivy, with a gnarled main stem the size of a fair sized
tree trunk, sends evergreen branches over roof as well as walls.
Outside the door, which opens to the south, stone-crop has planted
itself in masses among the stones, a perfect carpet of it, that in June
is a bright yellow. In the “good old times,” before my day, the stone-
crop served as a convenient spot on which to dump the coal sacks!
 On the western side where the ground drops down—a warm,
snug and sheltered bank—in the long grass white violets bloom by
the thousand in the early spring, their sweet little blossoms streaked
with mauve, nestling up to the old grey walls with the trustfulness of
little children. Add to this long-fronded ferns growing out from
among the wall stones, and you have an idea of the geography of
the place.
On a hot day the cool shade on the north side is an ideal resting
place; on a chilly day the south side gives you a shield from the
wind. A pile of tree trunks and old logs lying outside fairly ask you to
sit for a moment and take in some of the loveliness of the scene—
you can never exhaust the whole of it—and if you sit for a minute
you will probably sit there for hours.
Here is absolute quiet of spirit, but never silence. The trees are
seldom still; all day and all night the wind upon these hills sways the
tall, lithe tops of the larches to and fro, to and fro; the leaves and
the catkins of the birches are for ever fluttering; the vibrant
branches of the pines hum and sing in the breezes, summer or
winter; the music of it all never ceases though it varies in volume
according to the season. On the hottest summer days the grasses
still sigh; the bees hum all day long in the clover; the blue-tits tweet
and twitter as they swing about the birches, and their cousins the
coal-tits keep up an endless run of comment in the larches. In May
the nightingale comes into the grove to sing; in June rival
chaffinches perch on the top spikes of certain spruce trees—always
the same bird on the same spike—and defy each other and the
world in general. The stock-dove croons over its nest in the tallest
firs, and the reddy-brown squirrel scolds you severely if you are
coming too near his own particular chosen tree.

Inside the wood-house you may find many things; some you are
prepared for, some you are not. In theory, it is sacred to the use of
the Head of Affairs, a sort of play-house and workshop combined,
wherein no handy man is supposed to set foot, and no prying eyes
are supposed to discover that the owner is working in a jersey, with
no qualms over the absence of waistcoat and stiff collar.
But I often go in when I am anxious to be alone and wanting
many things that one cannot put down in words. And knowing this,
the Head of Affairs doesn’t keep his best saws there!—not the
splendid big “Farmer’s Saw,” with its doubly notched teeth, that run
through big fir trunks with amazing ease; nor the finer tools that
deal with the short snappy branches. No, the saw that is left for such
emergencies is a nondescript article that has now a wavy—very
wavy—edge, and a few of its teeth doubled over; a saw that seems
as though you can never get it well into the wood, and once you
have got it in, it can’t be got out again, much less be made to move
with soft purring motion.
You see, I have individuality where sawing is concerned, but it is
useless to talk about it, for I’ve come to the conclusion that
whatever other moral improvements a woman may manage to effect
in the man she marries, it is a lifework to get him to a proper
appreciation of her method of goffering a saw!
But I must beg you not to picture the wood-house as the home of
the miscellaneous collection of nondescript oddments so
indescribably dear to every masculine heart. There is an outhouse
elsewhere that accommodates short lengths of chain, pieces of wire
netting, old locks, bits of copper wire, staples and hooks, broken
hinges (that might be made do duty again, if any one ever has a
gate that prefers its hinges to be broken), oil cans, a piece of lead
pipe, various lengths of iron rods, broom handles, stale putty, old
keys, a couple of invalided padlocks, and—well, you know the type
of things that every self-respecting man likes to gather around him,
and keep handy, in case he might need them at any moment.
Unfortunately one of the many blighting influences of town-life,
for ever hindering the full flowering of one’s better nature, is the lack
of the necessary space to stock such useful items. But in the country
one is not so hampered, and one’s private marine store grows
apace, and differs only according to the temperament of the
collector. Indeed, I have come to the conclusion that country air
develops in man and woman alike that tendency to hoard, which is
so noticeable in early childhood, when the small girl collects buttons
and clippings from her mother’s sewing-room, and the small boy
bulges the blouse of his sailor suit with string and “conquers” and
coloured chalks, and old penknives and young frogs.
In town a woman’s only outlet, as a rule, is the bargain counter or
annual sale or remnant day. These dissipations are denied us in the
country, but we make up for it in many other directions. My own
particular weakness is jam-jars, and the way I pounce on any round
pot, be it glass or earthenware, that looks as though it might be
made to hold jelly or jam, is quite a study in efficiency. And, like all
expert collectors, my collection has sub-divisions, or perhaps you
would call them ramifications; cups that have lost their handles, jugs
ditto, glasses that once held a rolled tongue, or fish paste, are all
included; and friends, as they bring round a portmanteau full of
empty jars at Christmas or on my birthday, say, “It is so nice in your
case that one knows what you actually want; so much better to give
anyone what they really like, and will use, rather than some useless
bit of jewellery.” And I quite agree.
There was one moment when I feared my jars would have to go
in the general rending asunder of domestic life caused by the War,
even though I had determined to stick to them as long as I could.
But when that “one clear call” came for jam-pots, naturally I couldn’t
be a traitor to my country, and I decided the jars at least must go,
even though I might perhaps retain the handleless cups and jugs. So
I told Abigail to let me know when the grocer called.
I interviewed the young lady wearing high white kid boots and an
amethyst pendant on her bare chest, who brought my next large
consignment of groceries, that had to be bought in order to secure a
little sugar. But when she heard that there were jam-jars to go back,
she looked at me coldly from the doorstep, and hurriedly pushing
her basket further up her arm (lest I should attempt to force them
into it, I presume), the Abyssinian gold bracelets clanking the while,
haughtily informed me that her motor was for delivery only, not for
the cartage of empties, and suggested that I should write the
manager and see if he would consent to receive them.
I’m only human after all, and naturally any woman’s temperature
would rise in the face of such spurning of her free-will offerings. I
didn’t write, and I’m using the jam-jars still. The nation doesn’t
seem any the worse off—though Virginia points out to me that the
War might have ended sooner had I insisted on handing them over;
she says every little helps, as is proved by the fact that the very
week she put her first 15s. 6d. into Exchequer Bonds the
Government got the first “tank.”
At any rate, as I never eat preserves myself, I can still, even with
a restricted sugar allowance, enjoy the peculiar pleasure that arises
within a woman’s soul when she is occasionally able to say, quite
casually as it were, to a friend: “Would you care to have a pot of my
new gooseberry and cinnamon jam? They say it’s rather good,
though of course—etc.” And the friend replies: “Oh, I should love it,
dear; such a treat; that jar of ginger marmalade I took home last
time was positively delicious. Everyone said—etc.”
One favourite item for collection among the cottagers is old
bottles, and the stock you will see in some of their outhouses is
often most extensive and varied. On one occasion an old man who
was doing some odd days’ work for me about the garden, in the
absence of the handyman, was deploring the way the rabbits
devastated the cabbages.
“I’ll get rid on ’em for ’ee if you’ll leave ’em to me!” he assured
me. I said I only wished he would, as they are a real plague at
times.
Imagine my horror a few days later when I took some friends
along to see the vegetables, to discover a legion of empty whisky
bottles, labels intact, neck downwards in the soil, and dotted about
the vegetable garden in all directions. The old man explained that
they were put there to skeer they rabbits, as they was dreadful frit
of bottles! But my friends refused to believe that so honest-looking
an old Amos could have brought them with him!

The inside of the wood-house is as aloof as are the hills from our
machinery-driven, smoke-begrimed, petrol-flavoured twentieth
century. Even when work is in progress, here is no hustle; there are
no short cuts to the other side of a larch log; the saw must go
steadily, patiently, almost slowly, if it hopes to get through the tree
at one standing.
To step from the hot noonday glare, on a summer day, into the
cool seclusion of these thick stone walls, is to enter a haven of peace
and quiet that would seem to belong to the forest primeval rather
than to this noise-stricken age.
The window opening to the north excludes the fierce sun, but the
yellow-washed walls give light and cheeriness. And the ivy, that
ubiquitous plant that scorns all disadvantages, and overcomes every
obstacle, has crept in under the red tiles and hangs in festoons from
the dark rafters; while in other places its pale green shoots have
found for themselves a way clean through the thickness of the wall,
pushing along crevices and around the stones, till at last they have
come to light on the inner side, where they immediately proceed to
drape lopped trunks and big branches standing in the corner.
It is no mere accumulation of timber and sticks that is housed
within these rough old walls. The very spirit of the forest seems to
permeate the place; everything is part and parcel of the big outside
—the stones that pave the floor; the heap of cones in one corner,
waiting to brighten up smouldering winter fires and set them all
aglow; the solid sections of some sturdy oak, cut to just the right
height for seats; the bark stripped from a birch-tree, silver white
even now, with grey and pinkish paper-like peelings and black
breathing marks; and the great brown branches of larch, a tracery of
studded twigs and stems and cones, that have been placed across
the end of the wood-house, and sweep the rafters at the top,
looking, as you enter the door, like some wonderful rood-screen,
dark brown with age, shutting off an ancient, yellow-washed chancel
—though such a screen no mortal hand could ever carve!
The larch is always in evidence, and gives a resinous odour to the
place, as does the sawdust by the bench, a rich brown pile, for very
little of our hillside wood is white; most of it ranges from reddish-
brown to mahogany colour. Though here is a small creamy-white
gate in course of construction—merely a little wicket to keep the
calves out of the orchard—that is made of straight, round branches,
slit down the centre, so that one side of each is flat and the other
semicircular. The design is simplicity itself, some uprights with a few
cross-pieces to hold them together and suggest a trellis; yet the rich
cream colour and the satiny surface of the wood make it a thing of
distinct beauty. This is only a branch of the lime-tree, with the bark
peeled off.
In an ordinary way we seldom have a chance to notice the
intrinsic beauty of wood itself. Of course we see it in its polished
perfection when it comes to us in some choice piece of furniture, or
panelling; but this is not exactly the beauty to which I refer. Each
branch, each tree trunk, has, in its unpolished state, definite
characteristics of its own, quite distinct from those we see in the
finished product civilization regards as the one end to be aimed for.
These characteristics may be rough, and are frequently rugged; but
their appeal is often all the stronger for this fact.
Look at the wonderful ribbing on the rind of this Spanish
chestnut; what is it that wakes up in you when you study its lines
and formation? You cannot say, yet you respond to it in an
indefinable manner. These branches of apple-wood, only gnarled old
things, twisted and crooked and all out of shape some people would
say; yet you know that they would not have been nearly so lovely
had they been straight as a dart. The larches with their strong bark
showing grey and red and green, and furrowed like the sea sand—
isn’t there something in this that calls to you from back recesses of
your being, and reminds you of the time when you—no, not you, but
your ancestors, centuries ago, lived not so much in cities and houses
made with hands, as out of doors, finding mystery in the green-
roofed aisles and the cathedral dimness of forests long since felled?
To those of us who spend much time among these hills, each tree
within the wood-house comes as a friend, with a definite personality
and distinct association, and we regret its individual “going out,”
even though we know it to be inevitable.
This giant, that leans against the outside wall, with no possibility
of ever getting inside the door until it has been sawn in half, is a big
fir (where a squirrel nested) that heeled right over in a blizzard. Here
is the tall cherry-tree that died of a hollow heart, so beloved of the
birds that they left us never a one if we got up later than half-past
four the morning the cherries were ripe. This is the bough from the
big plum-tree that broke down last August under its weight of fruit.
These branches of old apple-trees are some of the winter wreckage
that was strewn about the orchards; see the lichen that covers
them, could anything be more satisfying to look upon? And these are
some of the birches that seemed so frail as they bent to the wind on
the slopes, with purple twigs and green leaves always moving; until
you have actually handled them you scarcely realize the strength
and toughness of the delicate-looking bark, and you henceforth take
a much more personal interest in Hiawatha and his canoe, even
though his tree was another member of the family. And that
convenient stump you are sitting upon is part of a hoary pear, that
used annually to clothe itself in white—and then contribute more
gallons of perry than it does to think of in these more sober days!
But no mere catalogue of contents can describe the charm of this
little wind-swept place. To realise it you must first of all stand in
need of quiet and retreat. When the craving comes upon you that
impels us all, at one time or another, to get away from “things” and
be alone with ourselves and Nature that we may re-discover our
souls, take a book if you will (it matters not what, for you won’t read
it, but to some it is essential that a book be in the hand if they are
to sit still for a moment!) and climb the hill to that wood-house.
Take a seat on the beech log by the door, and let yourself absorb
some of the spirit of your environment. Keep quite still when the
squirrel trails his bushy tail down the path, he won’t inquire after
your National Registration card; neither will the pheasant, even
though he raises his head with a suspicious jerk as he is feeding
among the grass. Little rabbits will dart in and out of their burrows
among the bracken; the woodpecker will mock at you from a tree
that waves above the roof; a robin will streak down from nowhere,
like a flash, and stand as erect as a drill-sergeant on the corner of
the work-bench while he inquires—but, there is an interruption; he
excuses himself for a moment while he goes off to thrash his wife
who ventured to peep in at the window. Let them all have their way,
they are as much a part of the general atmosphere of the place as
the sweet scent of the evening dew upon the grass, and the
ceaseless soughing of the wind in the branches; moreover, this is
home to them.
The little folk of the forests are so companionable when you know
them; even the same butterflies will come again and again. I
recently spent two hours a day for a fortnight in this spot, and all
the time apparently the same butterfly hovered about the door,
resting every few minutes on the warm rock among the stone-crop
and fiercely chasing off any other butterfly that came within its
evidently marked-out domain. And the little folk never bore you with
their boastings, nor weary you with platitudes. They are content to
let you think your own thoughts, to take you as you are, if you will
but recollect that theirs are ancient privileges that have descended
to them as a world-old heritage. It is you who, helpless in the grip of
civilisation, sold your forest “hearth-rights” long since, and are now
but a stranger, or at best a passing guest, in this out-door world that
was man’s first home.
 Gradually quiet possesses you, and you hear the trees talking of
things that have far outstripped the clash and turmoil of modernity.
What is it they say, those swaying boughs and branches that throb
with every wind, and these that stand around you, silently, waiting
their last service to man, each with some final sacrificial offering—
the apple-wood giving in incense, the oak giving in strength, and the
laurel giving in flame?
Theirs is a blessing rather than a message; a lifting of a load from
the over-burdened heart rather than the teaching of stern lessons.
And as you shake off some of the dust of earth that has clogged
your soul, you find yourself sending out thoughts in directions long
forgotten; the things of earth take on new proportions, the first
being often last, and the last becoming first.

The ministry of the forest trees can never be entirely explained;

but one remembers with reverence that our Lord Himself worked in
some such little wood-house, where He touched the trees and
fashioned the timber with His sacred Hands.
Haply He left His Benediction when He passed that way.
 XIII
Abigail’s “Lonely Sailor”

I’m sure I didn’t start my career of usefulness with any intention of

adopting a “lonely sailor.” It was Abigail who bestowed him upon me.
So far as I remember, it was something like this.
Abigail had joined “The Domestic Helpers’ Branch” of a Guild,
organised by some well-meaning souls, for the purpose of
befriending those men in the Army and Navy who are supposed to
be without feminine kith or kin of any description to take an interest
in them.
She had been lured to a Guild meeting by her friend Pamela.
Pamela, it should be explained, was my parlour-maid, originally,
but when the national trumpet sounded for the reduction of one’s
staff of employees, she had moved a little further along the road, to
“The Gables,” a household that fancied they needed a parlour-maid
worse than I did.
We were mutually quite satisfied with the transference; she had
recently had a sister enter the service of a ducal family, and I had
found the effort necessary to keep pace with the duchess
exceedingly wearing. Kind hearts may be more than coronets, but
they don’t always show to such advantage, since one has to wear
them inside.
As we had parted with no recriminations on either side, naturally I
begged Pamela to make my house “a home away from home”
whenever she pleased, which she accordingly did; and it was on one
of her many “runs in” that she had expatiated on the Guild in
question, and induced Abigail to sample it.
 And thus, Abigail had returned from the meeting moved to the
very core of her kind heart by the harrowing details the speaker had
related of fine, daring, courageous, and magnificent specimens of
British and Colonial manhood, left desolate and uncared for, pining
for a word of sympathy and understanding from someone in the
home-land—a word that never came, alas!
Abigail said it had quite put her off her supper that night, thinking
of all those brave men, defending us and our homes right up to their
very last breath—and yet, never a woman to get them a clean pair
of socks or a hot meal when all was over; not a letter of sympathy,
nor a card with a line on it (here cook told her that funeral cards had
quite gone out), not so much as a word of encouragement from any
relative under the sun, every woman at home selfishly engaged with
her own concerns—— Why, it was a disgrace to the country that our
heroes should be neglected and put upon by the women of the land
in any such way! And please would I mind her sending off a cake as
soon as possible? as of course she had adopted a lonely sailor,
wouldn’t have it on her conscience not to; and cook was quite willing
to make it, there was plenty of dripping, and we still had a fair
amount of carraway seeds left, and they wouldn’t come as expensive
as currants—cook’s cousins at the Crystal Palace liked carraways
quite as well as currants if plenty of spice and peel was put in. The
fried potatoes had nearly choked her, when she was telling cook
about it all . . . no, not because she was talking with her mouth full;
she meant that the very thought of those poor lonely men was like
eating sawdust. The speaker at the meeting had said he was sure
each one present had only to ask her employer, and permission
would be given immediately and gladly for a cake or potted meat or
some other little delicacy to be sent once a week, as a sign of
sympathy and understanding, to one of these grand yet lonely souls.
Of course I immediately and gladly gave permission for the
concrete sympathy to be sent once a week, but stipulated that it
was to be a cake; five shillings’ worth of meat, as per my butcher’s
charges, goes positively nowhere when “potted.” I reckoned that a
good dripping cake would give the desolate one a deal more
sympathy for the money.
(At the same time, to keep our rations properly balanced I cut off
the small plate of spice buns, our only cake luxury, which had been
in the habit of adorning our Sunday afternoon tea-table.)
And oh! the care with which we sewed up that first box of
sympathy in a remnant of cretonne, carefully putting it on wrong
side out (to preserve its beauty), and hoping that when he undid it
he would notice what a charming pattern of purple dahlias and blue
roses was on the inside, and how the cretonne was just a nice size
to make up into a boot bag if he chanced to be needing a new one.

I pass over the next few weeks while we waited anxiously for the
“lonely sailor” to materialise. He was engaged on board H.M.S. “The
North Sea,” and sailors, we know, are subject to wind and weather.
Abigail said she almost wished now that she had selected a lonely
soldier; she could have had one if she had liked; but she had chosen
a sailor because she thought he might wear better. The German
sailors didn’t seem so pigheadedly bent on fighting as the German
soldiers were.
We did our best to keep the time from hanging idly on our hands
by devising as much variety as possible for future menus, discussing
the respective merits of cinnamon versus cocoanut as a flavouring,
and wondering whether after all we shouldn’t be more likely to buck
up his desolate spirits (and more particularly his pen) if we sent a
sultana cake next week, rather than gingerbread.
I never before knew Abigail so prompt in her attendance upon the
postman’s knock as she was during those blank weeks that
accompanied the first half-dozen cakes. And then, when she was in
a very slough of dark despondency, and constantly wondering who
had eaten them, since they had evidently never reached him, a
letter arrived, and forthwith Abigail trod upon air—figuratively, I
mean, not literally; in reality I never heard her so noisy; she went up
and down, up and down the stairs past my study door where I was
working, as though she had lost a step and was looking for it!
Finally, when I heard her singing “Days and moments quickly flying”
as she O-cedar-mopped some neighbouring polished boards, I knew
something must have happened, and I opened the door and asked if
anything was the matter? Whereupon she produced the letter from
the bib of her apron—would have brought it before, only knew I
liked everything to be perfectly quiet when I was working—and
didn’t I think it was a lovely letter?
Though the handwriting wasn’t much to boast of, and the spelling
even worse, it was a straightforward, man-like letter; he was
evidently very pleased to have the cakes, and quite touched that the
young lady should have been so kind as to think of him. He said his
people were too far off to send him anything like that: his father and
mother had gone out to Canada when he was ten years old. No one
had sent him a parcel so far, therefore it was quite a surprise packet
when the first one came. It was kind of her to ask if he would like
some more; all he could say was—“the more the merrier,” if the
young lady felt like it.
And he signed himself, her faithful friend, Dick.
After that Dick’s name became so all-insistent in our midst that
the whole household appeared to exist solely for the purpose of
revolving round him. So constantly was it wafted on the four winds
of heaven, that I remarked to the Head of Affairs: it seemed for all
the world as though we had adopted a pet canary, and were
everlastingly wondering if his seed glass had been replenished.

There was only one slight shadow falling athwart the sunshine.
Pamela (who was a great authority on “How to tell your character by
your handwriting,” having had her own delineated by her favourite
penny weekly) had declared that Dick was anæmic and delicate; she
knew, because his handwriting sloped downwards—a sure sign; it
was also cramped and irregular, an unfailing indication of a mean
and grasping nature; while the heavy downstrokes and the absence
of punctuation proved as plain as plain could be that he was
unreliable.
Poor Pamela had had her own disappointments in life, and had
been warped a little thereby.
Of course Abigail said she did not believe a word of such rubbish,
and she rather liked the funny-shaped letters, and thought the black
strokes looked particularly strong and healthy.
Nevertheless, it was surprising how that trifle of seed, carelessly
dropped, took root in our minds, and how from that date onwards
we all regarded Dick as anæmic and in need of strenuous
nourishment; while if more than a month elapsed between his
communications, we couldn’t help just wondering whether, after all,
he might not be a little mean and grasping, and six weeks
demonstrated with absolute certainty that he was unreliable!

A month after we received his first letter, there came another, and
of course we all fluttered with excitement.
Dick still approved of the cakes, I was glad to hear; and since the
young lady had asked if there was anything else she could send, he
wasn’t one to cadge for himself, but there was his mate Mick; he
wanted to put in a word for him. Mick, it appeared, was even more
lonely, more ignored by the world of women, more in need of
sympathetic understanding than he was; and—what was more to the
point—was badly in want of a large scarf. Not that Mick would have
asked for it himself, very independent Mick was; but since he had so
enjoyed half of every cake, and the nights were very cold this time
of the year, and he had been his pal for years, why, he felt sure the
young lady wouldn’t mind his just mentioning it, as he couldn’t think
of telling her how short he was of socks himself.
 Mind! Why, we all regarded Dick as a public benefactor! Abigail
discovered that Dick and Mick rhymed, and as she said, you didn’t
have poetry like that brought to the door every day! She suddenly
developed the airs of a society belle; she borrowed my copy of “The
Modern Knitting Book;” and, might she just run out for an hour in
the afternoon to get some wool—you needed thicker wool for
scarves than for socks—as the shops were so dark at night?
Cook, with her numerous cousins on H.M.S. “Crystal Palace” (a
near neighbour of ours), was given to understand that she could
now take a second place! There was no getting away from the fact
that Mr. Dick and Mr. Mick were actually engaged in the defence of
the realm, while cook’s cousins appeared to do nothing more than
take joy-rides in motor-lorries to and fro along our road.
Pamela alone was sceptical; she said she should go cautiously,
you never knew! But then, she had every reason to be a pessimist;
even her “lonely soldier” had been sent out to China, and, naturally,
you can’t sympathise so understandingly with anyone when it takes
a couple of months before you get an answer to your letter (if even
he should chance to write by return), as when he is only across the
Straits of Dover. She said she got tired of keeping copies of her
letters, so that she might know what he was talking about when he
wrote back—only he never did!
Surmising that Abigail would have her hand over-full if she took
on the wants of both men, I said to her, “I think I had better adopt
Mr. Mick, as I am sure you will have enough to do to provide et-
ceteras for Mr. Dick! You can take all the credit for it, and write the
letters, but I will settle the bills.”
And having some socks and a large muffler all ready for dispatch
to some needy man, I gave them to her and said I would pay the
postage, if she would save me the trouble of doing them up and
taking them to the post office. I also added that a cake had better
be sent once a week to Mr. Mick in addition to the one sent to Mr.
Dick. I know something of the appetite of the Navy—and what is one
simple cake between two hearty men!
Abigail was effusively grateful, took it quite as a personal favour;
you might have thought I was settling an annuity on her own father!
She explained that naturally she felt more interest in Dick, and was
more anxious to spend her money on him; at the same time, she
should certainly mention my name to Mr. Mick; it wouldn’t be fair to
take all the credit to herself.
So we left it at that.
I consulted with cook on the subject of securing ample and
pleasing variety, combined with unquestionable nourishment; and
judging by the amount of information she was able to give me as to
what “they” like, you would have thought she had reared a whole
family of husbands!
Forthwith, the house was steeped in a perpetual aroma of baking
cakes (of course the cousins couldn’t be neglected either), till I got
nervous lest the Food Controller should make it his business to call.
Upstairs we not only went cakeless, but in order to make sugar-ends
meet, we drank unsweetened tea and coffee, a trial to all of us! And
stewed fruit requiring sugar was also taboo.
On second consideration, I am inclined to think that it was not,
first and foremost, my benevolence that led me to adopt Mick: it was
primarily a matter of self-interest! Even in war time it is necessary to
have a little work done, if only occasionally, in the home; and if the
household helpers were to take on yet another outside responsibility,
in addition to the many already on their hands, I didn’t see where
my work would come in at all—and I can’t do everything in the
evening, after I get home from town. As it was, we were already
knitting morning, noon, and night, for every branch of the Services!

I put the collection of figures and capital letters that represented

Mick’s address, into my pocket-book with other similar data.
Periodically I handed Abigail pairs of socks or mittens, a body-belt,
handkerchiefs, and similar utilities; and when any sea-going event,
such as a raid on a submarine base, or a “scrap” in the North Sea, or
a warship mined, brought the Navy specially to my mind, I would go
into the Stores and order a parcel to be sent to Mick, adding one for
Dick also, if the occasion happened to be a harrowing one. At such
times one feels one cannot do enough for our men; and Dick and
Mick little knew how often they benefited by the misfortunes of
others.
The first time I received a letter from my devoted friend Michael
McBlaggan, I admit I was a trifle bewildered, as I couldn’t for the
moment “place” any member of the McBlaggan family; but when I
read the document through and noted how kind he considered it
that my friend Miss Abigail should have introduced us, light dawned,
and I sent him a post-card saying I hoped he would always let me
know if he wanted anything further in the way of woollens.
And thus the months wore on, punctuated by laboriously written
communications from Dick, with an occasional card from Mick, who
kept more in the background. The great attraction, undoubtedly, was
Dick. He entered into personal details, asked if the young lady had
made the cakes herself. Here I understand cook was not too
absorbed in her own relations to insist that full credit should be
given to the right person; and Abigail wrote explaining that as she
was very much occupied, and too busy to attend to the cooking, a
friend who lived with her always made the cakes. Whereupon by
return post I received a sloping, heavy-downstroked letter of thanks
from the dutiful Dick!
On another occasion, Dick sent his photo (after being asked for it
times out of number, I believe). It was not as satisfactory as it might
have been, because it was an amateur snapshot group, and you
know how easy it is to decipher the features when the hand camera
has stood a quarter of a mile away (so as to include as much of the
landscape as possible), and everyone’s face is in black shadow under
a hat brim that has been tilted forward to exclude the full glare of
the sun.
Unfortunately he omitted to put a X against himself, and as there
were a dozen men in the group all in slouch hats and farm attire (to
say nothing of the women and children), there was little to help us!
But he did say that, as Abigail had told him Canada was the one
place above all others that she longed to see, and how she was
hoping to go there as soon as the war was over, he had sent his
picture taken on a Canadian farm. It was just a little gathering
photographed on someone’s birthday.
Still, as he hadn’t given us any help in the matter, we had to
decide ourselves which was the lonely sailor (though, as Abigail
commented, she couldn’t understand how, with such a large
collection of friends, he could ever have come to be so alone in the
world). We picked out a thin, anæmic-looking young man, who was
standing beside a comfortable, matronly woman in a shady hat and
a big apron; and as her age might have been anything from thirty to
sixty, we decided she was his mother, and I remarked what a nice
homely soul she looked in her checked apron, and no wonder he
was devoted to her, and how proud she must be of the dear lad—all
of which Abigail accepted as a personal compliment.

Winter gave way to spring, and in like rotation mince pies were
superseded by Swiss roll (to make which eggs were struck off our
breakfast menu), and marmalade replaced the figs and dates in the
parcels that went out to some unknown spot on the world’s ocean-
spaces, all of which our wonderful Navy now controls.
Likewise, cretonne gave place to unbleached calico, my remnants
being exhausted.
Existence downstairs fluctuated between heights of excitement
and depths of gloom. The Crystal Palace authorities had a most
unreasonable way of shipping men off to Mesopotamia, Salonika,
Hongkong, Archangel, or anywhere else where they thought the air
would prove salubrious, without a single word of inquiry as to
whether the transfer met with cook’s approval. Hence, there was a
series of constantly recurring blanks to mar what would otherwise
have been a life of unsullied joyousness; and at such times of
depression cook darkly hinted that punching tram tickets and
ordering people to “move up a little on that side, please,” would be a
deliriously exhilarating occupation compared with the monotony of
cake-making for nobody-knows-who!
As every gift-giver is aware, there is invariably a grey hiatus
between the sending off of the gift and the arrival of the recipient’s
gratitude; hence, the bustle and excitement of getting off each
parcel of eatables and pair of socks and tin of tobacco was always
followed by a spell of wistful longing, while the postal authorities,
out of sheer perversity (we presumed), held back the letter that
would have meant so much to Abigail.
Moreover, Pamela was doing anything but contribute to the gaiety
of nations! She was often in with Abigail on her spare evenings; and
seemed to devote the time to perpetual croaks, on one occasion
ending with the assurance that, for her part, she should have
nothing to do with a man who was merely a common sailor; self-
respect, if nothing else, would make her look for something better
than that.
I am glad to say Abigail had sufficient spirit left to retort that if he
was good enough to fight for her, he was good enough for the
bestowal of a cake. Nevertheless, a decided coolness sprang up
between them; and for a week or two after this exchange of
confidences, Abigail appeared to be sinking in a rapid “decline” (as
they used to call it), and I felt I was positively inhuman to expect
her to do a hand’s turn in the house.
Yet life was not entirely bereft of purple patches. The gloom
consequent upon the Silence of the Navy lifted occasionally. As, for
instance, when we had a bomb drop in our road. Yes, in our very
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