LISTEN TO THE MOCKING-BIRD 



pie with brandy in it. I felt the pristine stir in 

 me and could smell the tan-bark ring. I was 

 rather proud of this childish impulse. I coaxed 

 myself to believe that I could hear the dear old 

 clown with the whitened face say, &quot; Here we are 



again,&quot; and wake the elemental soul with that old 

 &quot; . 

 Eleusinian mystery, &quot; What makes more noise 



than a pig under a gate ? &quot; This is coming back 

 to the very porridge of our first lunch of humour. 

 To know just how good brandy is in mince pie, 

 one must be a Prohibitionist. I suppose the zest 

 of anything depends on the deprivation, if not on 

 the prohibition. I remember that a great trav 

 eller once said to me, that the much-vaunted cata 

 ract of the Ganges was a poverty-struck puddle, 

 but that in a country where there was no water, a 

 puddle looked like an inundation. 



&quot; Listen to the Mocking-bird, &quot; I said to my 

 self, as I leaned up against a tree and braced my 

 self to watch the clouds roll by, a task which I 

 have reduced to perfection. These sweetish run 

 agate tunes come waltzing down our recollections, 

 heavy with the dew of idle associations. Could 

 there anywhere be such a fresh innocent sensation 

 as to take Charlie and Griselle to the circus and 

 fill my unselfish nature up with their delight ! 

 &quot; Gosh to hemlock,&quot; I exclaimed, with my new 

 provincial ardour, &quot; it is engendered. Griselle will 

 come out with an extra crisp muslin and a new 

 ribbon, and, maybe, put on her high-heeled shoes, 

 and rub bergamot in that furzy hair of hers. All 

 the yokels of Spelldown will wonder who I am in 



81 



