The Sunny Side (15 page)

“Well, I haven't got
anything
in mine,” said Celia, mournfully. She took off the offending ring and gave it to me.

On the day when I first put the ring on her finger, Celia swore an oath that nothing but death, extreme poverty or brigands should ever remove it. I swore too. Unfortunately it fell off in the course of the afternoon, which seemed to break the spell somehow. So now it goes off and on just like any other ring. I took it from her and looked inside.

“There are all sorts of things here too,” I said. “Really, you don't seem to have read your wedding-ring at all. Or, anyhow, you've been skipping.”

“There's nothing,” said Celia in the same mournful voice. “I do think you might have put something.”

I went and sat on the arm of her chair, and held the ring up.

“You're an ungrateful wife,” I said, “after all the trouble I took. Now look there,” and I pointed with a pencil, “what's the first thing you see?”

“Twenty-two. That's only the—”

“That was your age when you married me. I had it put in at enormous expense. If you had been eighteen, the man said, or—or nine, it would have come much cheaper. But no, I would have your exact age. You were twenty-two and that's what I had engraved on it. Very well. Now what do you see next to it?”

“A crown.”

“Yes. And what does that mean? In the language of—er—crowns it means ‘You are my queen.' I insisted on a crown. It would have been cheaper to have had a lion, which means—er—lions, but I was determined not to spare myself. For I thought,” I went on pathetically, “I quite thought you would like a crown.”

“Oh, I do,” cried Celia quickly, “if it really means that.” She took the ring in her hands and looked at it lovingly. “And what's that there? Sort of a man's head.”

I gazed at her sadly.

“You don't recognize it? Has a year of marriage so greatly changed me? Celia, it is your Ronald!
I sat for that, hour after hour, day after day, for your sake, Celia. It is not a perfect likeness; in the small space allotted to him the sculptor has hardly done me justice. And there,” I added, “is his initial ‘r.' Oh, woman, the amount of thought I spent on that ring!”

She came a little closer and slipped the ring on my finger.

“Spend a little more,” she pleaded. “There's plenty of room. Just have something nice written in it—something about you and me.”

“Like ‘Pisgah'?”

“What does that mean?”

“I don't know. Perhaps it's ‘Mizpah,' or ‘Ichabod,' or ‘Habakkuk.' I'm sure there's a word you put on rings—I expect they'd know at the shop.”

“But I don't want what they know at shops. It must be something quite private and special.”

“But the shop has got to know about it when I tell them. And I don't like telling strange men in shops private and special things about ourselves. I love you, Celia, but—”

“That would be a lovely thing,” she said, clasping her hands eagerly.

“What?”

“'I love you, Celia.'”

I looked at her aghast.

“Do you want me to order that in cold blood from the shopman?”

“He wouldn't mind. Besides, if he saw us together he'd probably know. You aren't afraid of a goldsmith, are you?”

“I'm not afraid of any goldsmith living—or goldfish either, if it come to that. But I should prefer to be sentimental in some other language than plain English. I could order ‘
Cars sposa
,' or—or ‘
Spaghetti
,' or anything like that, without a tremor.”

“But of course you shall put just whatever you like. Only—only let it be original. Not Mizpahs.”

“Right,” I said.

For three days I wandered past gold and silversmiths with the ring in my pocket…and for three days Celia went about without a wedding-ring, and, for all I know, without even her marriage-lines in her muff. And on the fourth day I walked boldly in.

“I want,” I said, “a wedding-ring engraved,” and I felt in my pockets. “Not initials,” I said, and I felt in some more pockets, “but—but—” I tried
the trousers pockets again. “Well, look here, I'll be quite frank with you. I—er—want—” I fumbled in my ticket-pocket, “I want ‘I love you' on it,” and I went through the waistcoat pockets a third time. “'I—er—love you.'”

“Me?” said the shopman, surprised.

“I love you,” I repeated mechanically. “I love you. I love you, I—Well, look here, perhaps I'd better go back and get the ring.”

On the next day I was there again; but there was a different man behind the counter.

“I want this ring engraved,” I said.

“Certainly. What shall we put?”

I had felt the question coming. I had a sort of instinct that he would ask me that. But I couldn't get the words out again.

“Well,” I hesitated, “I—er—well.”

“Ladies often like the date put in. When is it to be?”

“When is what to be?”

“The wedding,” he smiled.

“It has been,” I said. “It's all over. You're too late for it.”

I gave myself up to thought. At all costs I must be original. There must be something on Celia's
wedding-ring that had never been in any other's…

There was only one thing I could think of.

 

The engraved ring arrived as we were at tea a few days later, and I had a sudden overwhelming fear that Celia would not be pleased. I saw that I must explain it to her. After all, there was a distinguished precedent.

“Come into the bath-room a moment,” I said, and I led the way.

She followed, wondering.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing to a blue thing on the floor.

“The bath-mat,” she said, surprised.

“And that is written on it?”

“Why—‘bath-mat,' of course.”

“Of course,” I said…and I handed her the wedding-ring.

The Arrival of Blackman's Warbler

I am become an Authority on Birds. It happened in this way.

The other day we heard the Cuckoo in Hampshire. (The next morning the papers announced that the Cuckoo had been heard in Devonshire—possibly a different one, but in no way superior to ours except in the matter of its Press agent.) Well, everybody in the house said, “Did you hear the Cuckoo?” to everybody else, until I began to get rather tired of it; and, having told everybody several times that I
had
heard it, I tried to make the conversation more interesting. So, after my tenth “Yes,” I added quite casually:

“But I haven't heard the Tufted Pipit yet. It's funny why it should be so late this year.”

“Is that the same as the Tree Pipit?” said my hostess, who seemed to know more about birds than I had hoped.

“Oh, no,” I said quickly.

“What's the difference exactly?”

“Well, one is tufted,” I said, doing my best, “and the other—er—climbs trees.”

“Oh, I see.”

“And of course the eggs are more speckled,” I added, gradually acquiring confidence.

“I often wish I knew more about birds,” she said regretfully. “You must tell us something about them now we've got you here.”

And all this because of one miserable Cuckoo!

“By all means,” I said, wondering how long it would take to get a book about birds down from London.

However, it was easier than I thought. We had tea in the garden that afternoon, and a bird of some kind struck up in the plane-tree.

“There, now,” said my hostess, “what's that?”

I listened with my head on one side. The bird said it again.

“That's the Lesser Bunting,” I said hopefully.

“The Lesser Bunting,” said an earnest-looking girl; “I shall always remember that.”

I hoped she wouldn't, but I could hardly say so. Fortunately the bird lesser-bunted again, and I seized the opportunity of playing for safety.

“Or is it the Sardinian White-throat?” I wondered. “They have very much the same note
during the breeding season. But of course the eggs are more speckled,” I added casually.

And so on for the rest of the evening. You see how easy it is.

However, the next afternoon a more unfortunate occurrence occurred. A real Bird Authority came to tea. As soon as the information leaked out, I sent up a hasty prayer for bird-silence until we had got him safely out of the place; but it was not granted. Our feathered songster in the plane-tree broke into his little piece.

“There,” said my hostess—“there's that bird again.” She turned to me. “What did you say it was?”

I hoped that the Authority would speak first, and that the others would then accept my assurance that they had misunderstood me the day before; but he was entangled at that moment in a watercress sandwich, the loose ends of which were still waiting to be tucked away.

I looked anxiously at the girl who had promised to remember, in case she wanted to say something, but she also was silent. Everybody was silent except that miserable bird.

Well, I had to have another go at it. “Blackman's Warbler,” I said firmly.

“Oh, yes,” said my hostess.

“Blackman's Warbler; I shall always remember that,” lied the earnest-looking girl.

The Authority, who was free by this time, looked at me indignantly.

“Nonsense,” he said; “it's the Chiff-chaff.”

Everybody else looked at me reproachfully. I was about to say that “Blackman's Warbler” was the local name for the Chiff-chaff in our part of Somerset, when the Authority spoke again.

“The Chiff-chaff,” he said to our hostess with an insufferable air of knowledge.

I wasn't going to stand that.

“So
I
thought when I heard it first,” I said, giving him a gentle smile. It was now the Authority's turn to get the reproachful looks.

“Are they very much alike?” my hostess asked me, much impressed.

“Very much. Blackman's Warbler is often mistaken for the Chiff-chaff, even by so-called experts”—and I turned to the Authority and added, “Have another sandwich, won't you?”—
“particularly so, of course, during the breeding season. It is true that the eggs are more speckled, but—”

“Bless my soul,” said the Authority, but it was easy to see that he was shaken, “I should think I know a Chiff-chaff when I hear one.”

“Ah, but do you know a Blackman's Warbler? One doesn't often hear them in this country. Now in Algiers—”

The bird said “Chiff-chaff” again with an almost indecent plainness of speech.

“There you are!” I said triumphantly. “Listen,” and I held up a finger. “You notice the difference?
Obviously
a Blackman's Warbler.”

Everybody looked at the Authority. He was wondering how long it would take to get a book about birds down from London, and deciding that it couldn't be done that afternoon. Meanwhile he did not dare to repudiate me. For all he had caught of our mumbled introduction I might have been Blackman myself.

“Possibly you're right,” he said reluctantly.

Another bird said “Chiff-chaff” from another tree and I thought it wise to be generous. “There,” I said, “now that
was
a Chiff-chaff.”

The earnest-looking girl remarked (silly creature) that it sounded just like the other one, but nobody took any notice of her. They were all busy admiring me.

Of course I mustn't meet the Authority again, because you may be pretty sure that when he got back to his books he looked up Blackman's Warbler and found that there was no such animal. But if you mix in the right society, and only see the wrong people once, it is really quite easy to be an authority on birds—or, I imagine, on anything else.

The Last Straw

It was one of those summer evenings with the chill on, so after dinner we lit the smoking-room fire and wondered what to do. There were eight of us; just the right number for two bridge tables, or four picquet pairs, or eight patience singles.

“Oh, no, not cards,” said Celia quickly. “They're so dull.”

“Not when you get a grand slam,” said our host, thinking of an accident which had happened to him the night before.

“Even then I don't suppose anybody laughed.”

Peter and I, who were partners on that occasion, admitted that we hadn't laughed.

“Well, there you are,” said Celia triumphantly. “Let's play proverbs.”

“I don't think I know it,” said Herbert. (He wouldn't.)

“Oh, it's quite easy. First you think of a proverb.”

“Like ‘A burnt camel spoils the moss,'” I explained.

“You mean ‘A burnt child dreads the fire,'” corrected Herbert.

Celia caught my eye and went on hurriedly, “Well, then somebody goes outside, and then he asks questions—”

“From outside?” asked Mrs. Herbert.

“From inside,” I assured her. “Generally from very near the fire, because he has got so cold waiting in the hall.”

“Oh, yes, I see.”

“And then he asks questions, and we each have to get one of the words of the proverb into our answer, without letting him know what the proverb is. It's rather fun.”

Peter and his wife, who knew the game, agreed. Mrs. Herbert seemed resigned to the worst, but Herbert, though faint, was still pursuing.

“But doesn't he
guess
what the proverb is?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “But sometimes, if we are very, very clever, he doesn't. That, in fact, is the game.”

Our host got up and went to the door.

“I think I see,” he said; “and I want my pipe anyhow. So I'll go out first.”

“Now then,” said Celia, when the door was safely closed, “what shall we have?”

Of course you know this game, and you know the difficulty of thinking of a proverb which has no moss or stable-doors or glasshouses in it; all of them words which it is impossible to include naturally in an answer to an ordinary question. The proverbs which Mrs. Herbert suggested were full of moss.

“What about ‘It's never too late to mend?'” said Mrs. Peter. “The only difficult word is ‘mend.'”

“We mustn't have less than seven words, one for each of us.”

“Can't we get something from Solomon for a change?” said Peter. “‘A roaring lion is a calamity to its father, but the cautious man cometh not again.' That sort of thing.”

“We might try it,” said Celia doubtfully, not feeling quite sure if it were a real proverb; “but ‘cometh' would be difficult.”

“I don't see why,” said Herbert. “One could always work it in somehow.”

“Well, of course, if he asked you, ‘By what train cometh thou up in the mornings?' you could answer, ‘I cometh up by the ten-fifteen.' Only you
don't get that sort of question as a rule.”

“Oh, I see,” said Herbert. “I didn't quite understand.”

“After all, its really much more fun having camels and things,” said Celia. “'It's the last straw that breaks the camel's back.' Who'll do ‘camel's'? You'd better,” she added kindly to me.

Everybody but myself seemed to think that this was much more fun.

“I'll do ‘straw,'” said Peter generously, whereupon Celia volunteered for “breaks.” There were seven of us for nine words. We gave Mrs. Herbert the second “the,” fearing to trust her with anything more alarming and in order to keep it in the family we gave the other “the” to Herbert, who was also responsible for “back.” Our hostess had “last” and Mrs. Peter had “that.”

All this being settled, our host was admitted into his smoking-room again.

“You begin with me,” I said, and I was promptly asked, “How many blue beans make five?” When I had made a suitable answer into which “it's” came without much difficulty, our host turned to Herbert. Herbert's face had already assumed a look of strained expectancy.

“Well, Herbert, what do you think of Lloyd George?”

“Yes,” said Herbert. “Yes—er—yes.” He wiped the perspiration from his brow. “He—er—that is to say—er—Lloyd George, yes.”

“Is that the answer?” said our host, rather surprised.

Herbert explained hastily that he hadn't really begun yet, and with the aid of an anecdote about a cousin of his who had met Winston Churchill at Dieppe once, he managed to get “the” in several times before blowing his nose vigorously and announcing that he had finished.

“I believe he's playing a different game,” murmured Celia to Mrs. Peter.

The next three words were disposed of easily enough, a lucky question to Peter about the weather giving him an opportunity to refer to his straw hat. It was now Celia's turn for “breaks.”

“Nervous?” I asked her.

“All of a twitter,” she said.

“Well, Celia,” said our host, “how long are you going to stay with us?”

“Oh, a long time yet,” said Celia confidently.

“Till Wednesday, anyhow,” I interrupted,
thinking it a good opportunity to clinch the matter.

“We generally stay,” explained Celia, “until our host breaks it to us that he can't stick us any longer.”

“Not that that often happens,” I added.

“Look here, which of you is answering the question?”

“I am,” said Celia firmly.

“Well, have you answered it yet?”

“To tell the truth I've quite forgotten the word that—Oh, I remember now. Yes,” she went on very distinctly and slowly, “I hope to remain under your roof until next Wednesday morn. Whew!” and she fanned herself with her handkerchief.

Mrs. Herbert repeated her husband's triumph with “the,” and then it was my turn again for these horrible camels. My only hope was that our host would ask me if I had been to the Zoo lately, but I didn't see why he should. He didn't.

“Would it surprise you to hear,” he asked, “that the President of Czecho-Slovakia has a very long beard?”

“If it had only been ‘goats,'” I murmured to myself. Aloud I said, “What?” in the hope of
gaining a little more time.

He repeated his question.

“No,” I said slowly, “no, it wouldn't,” and I telegraphed an appeal to Celia for help. She nodded back at me.

“Have you finished?” asked our host.

“Good Lord, no, I shall be half an hour yet. The fact is you've asked the wrong question. You see, I've got to get in ‘moss.'”

“I thought it was ‘camels,'” said Celia carelessly.

“No, ‘moss.' Now if you'd only asked me a question about gardening—You see, the proverb we wanted to have first of all was ‘People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones,' only ‘throw' was so difficult. Almost as difficult as—” I turned to Celia. “What was it you said just now? Oh yes, camels. Or stable doors, or frying-pans. However, there it is.” And I enlarged a little more on the difficulty of getting in these difficult words.